


The Highest Bidder

by pagesoflauren



Category: Chris Evans - Fandom, Knives Out (2019), Ransom Drysdale - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, Cliffhangers, Daddy Kink, Domestic Fluff, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Smut, Loss of Virginity, Mildly Dubious Consent, Romantic Fluff, Smut, Sugar Daddy, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-17 15:09:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 29,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28851111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pagesoflauren/pseuds/pagesoflauren
Summary: Summary: A graduate-level education is a costly pursuit. When you move out of state to study in Boston, expenses pile up, leading you to auction off what is apparently your most valuable asset: your virginity. It goes to the highest bidder…who happens to be Ransom Drysdale.There are no major spoilers for Knives Out. Consider this as an alternate timeline. There will be references to the movie/its characters and family dynamics revealed in the movie.
Relationships: Ransom Drysdale/Reader
Comments: 13
Kudos: 107





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: loss of virginity, explicit sexual content/smut, angst, dubcon, cliffhanger, unprotected sex, irresponsible driving (don’t drink and drive!), swearing

With his bedroom illuminated by the flashing images of his television, Ransom lounged lazily in his bed. One hand was occupied with his phone as his thumb slowly scrolled over the screen, the other idly wrapped around his cock as he took in the images on the device. 

Various girls, all a few years younger than him, staring with false wide-eyed innocence or sprawled out provocatively across recliners on sandy beaches or by turquoise-watered pools. Their names or aliases were listed under the respective photos, with a number in green text next to it. 

Deciding there were too many options, Ransom scrolled back up, the hand on his cock pausing as he started setting filters through the search. He changed them to specific hair colors, skin tones and a more concentrated age range. The only filter he didn’t change was the prices–there was no limit there. The page refreshed and showed him more favorable faces. 

His mind started to numb and the faces started looking too similar. As he was ready to pack it in for the night and tuck himself back into his boxers, a strange listing catches his attention. 

He sees you, kneeling in the sand at an apparent topical destination in a barely-there bikini. Unlike the other girls, though, your face is candid, caught in a laugh, eyes crinkled and lips spread in joy. There’s no price. Just the letters “HB” in red text. 

He clicks on your photo and the webpage changes to your profile. There’s a few more photos of you: one with a cat, more vacation photos. Your location is convenient: Boston. Not too far from where he is. 

But all of that fails to answer the question at the forefront of Ransom’s mind: _Why don’t you have a price next to your name?_

He scrolls through a couple more meaningless pieces of information: a little blurb about who you are, your measurements, your race and your conditions.

_One time only._

“What?” he wonders aloud, face scrunching in curiosity. Sugar babies don’t just have sex once and then walk away with a fortune. From what he’s heard, they bitch and moan but shut up when there’s a cock in their mouth (or pussy, for that matter). They need to be looked after either because they can’t afford it or can’t be bothered to do things on their own. Then, once he reaches the end of your profile, he understands. 

**Virginity Auction. Current Bid: $8,250.**

Ransom smirks at the prospect. He wasn’t looking for a virgin, but he likes the idea of taking one now. 

The number changes in real time, going up in five dollar increments before someone brings it up to $8,500. A pop-up window appears, warning him that if he’s interested, the auction ends at midnight. Ransom’s eyes flick to the top of his phone. It’s 11:57.

He thinks for a few ticks. If he pays you enough, he’ll have the convenience of entertaining himself between your legs _and_ taking your virginity with no strings attached. Once that’s done, you’ll be out of his hair. He wouldn’t have to put you up, send you money or deal with your whining or complaining. 

Sounds like a good deal. 

Pressing his thumb into the blue button that says “Bid,” Ransom looks at the clock again. 11:58. 

Initially, he types in $10,000. But with two minutes to go and your price still ticking up, he doesn’t want to chance getting outbid by someone at the last second. He has to blow the other bidders out of the water. 

* * *

Sat up in your bed and wringing your hands nervously, you look at your cracked phone screen. Midnight has just passed and you’re waiting for a notification about the final bid in your auction. It started at $5,000 and in the week that the listing was posted, you had gotten notifications whenever it went to the next thousand. 

This isn’t how you wanted to lose your virginity. Ideally, you would have genuinely made love to somebody, someone your parents would have approved of and who truly cared for you. Even more ideally, it would have been the man who eventually became your husband…though you wouldn’t have waited until marriage to lose your V-card. You were about to take the next step in life and–you had to face it–you weren’t getting younger. 

What was the least ideal of it all was the fact that you were doing this out of pure desperation. Your graduate program was starting in a month and your savings were mostly gobbled up by application and testing fees. Living out of state didn’t help either; most of your money went to paying rent and commuting around the city. If someone paid you enough to tide your finances over, you could live off that money until the end of the semester, after adjusting to the program and your schedule, before taking on a job off campus. 

Your phone buzzed with an email from the website and you tapped the banner. Your email app launched and opened directly to the message. 

_Your auction has ended._

Reading further, you can’t believe what you see. 

_Winning bid: $50,000 by Ransom Drysdale._

Fifty thousand dollars? Surely there must be a mistake. Why would someone pay ten times the starting bid? 

And _Drysdale_ …where had you seen that name? 

Closing your eyes, you searched your recollection to place the name. It’s so familiar. 

Deciding your memory is unreliable, you resolve to a Google search of your highest bidder’s last name. 

The first result that pops up is a real estate company and a picture of famed author Harlan Thrombey, who apparently is the father of the woman who owns the business.

You feel faint…these names are not insignificant in Massachusetts, let alone the world. Harlan was a best-selling mystery writer–you had some of his books in your library back home. 

Then concern floods your brain: if this Linda Drysdale is Harlan Thrombey’s _daughter_ , that makes Thrombey her maiden name. She must’ve _married_ a Drysdale. 

Are you a pawn in some horrible cheating scandal? You must be, nobody has the name _Ransom_. It has to be an alias. Her husband must be looking for some young thing to get his rocks off. 

Stress causes your scalp to prickle as your phone buzzes again with a text message from the semi-mysterious Ransom, checking if it’s you, that he has the right number. 

> _Yes_ , you reply. 

The three dotted message bubble pops up before turning into another message.

> **_Good. I’ve made a reservation at The Boxer in the city for Saturday. I told them you’ll check in. I told them not to charge you anything, but if you need to pay any fees, I’ll send you the money back. I’ll be there after 9._ **

A chill runs down your spine at how direct he is. But, you suppose you can’t expect anything more from him. 

> _Okay,_ you acknowledge.

More dots, then another message.

> **_Dress appropriately._ **

Despite your lack of experience in the bedroom, you know for a fact that he’s not referring to office attire. 

Settling back onto your pillow, you pull the covers over yourself and breathe slowly. You’ve got some preparation to do.

* * *

_What do you bring with you when you’re planning to lose your virginity to a complete stranger in exchange for tuition money?_

Fuck all if you have a clue. 

You spent the days leading up to Saturday getting yourself ready. You bought a tight dress and pair of strappy heels from the sale racks. You cluelessly browsed for lingerie before an associate took pity on you (or just desperately wanted you out of her store, jury’s still out on that) and helped you select a lacy set complete with a garter and stockings. The associate absolutely gushed at how the color of the material complemented your skin tone, though you could care less. You forked over $120 for the damn thing and scampered out. Learning from your friends’ mistakes, you purchased a set of condoms using the self-checkout kiosk (and prayed you picked the right size). You weren’t instructed to buy condoms, but you figured you wouldn’t risk the chance of not having any. You endured a Brazilian wax, stifling profanities as the woman did her work. You also had trouble getting over your embarrassment; a stranger was going to see you bared all for him in a few days so if you can’t handle the wax lady seeing you, how could you handle “Ransom”?

_Ransom_.

Thinking about him did nothing for your nerves. You were certain you were going to lose your virginity to a man in his late 50s, who was married to Massachusetts’ biggest real estate mogul and the daughter of a renowned author. 

Dear God, what if she found out? Her father wrote _murder mysteries_ , she had plenty of ways to kill you and get away with it. What if you weren’t even meeting “Ransom” and you were meeting Linda and she was going to kill you at the hotel?

You shake your head and look back down at the contents of your duffel bag: toiletries, a change of clothes for tomorrow, the condoms and your phone charger. You had created a playlist on your phone…if you weren’t going to lose your virginity to someone you loved, then maybe you could fake it with music. 

_Who are you kidding?_ you chide yourself. 

You sigh and resolve to getting ready. After eating dinner, you strip off your old band t-shirt and sweatpants, remove your simple cotton underwear and novelty pineapple-patterned socks before discarding them into your laundry hamper. 

You shimmy into the lacy knickers, the material feeling quite uncomfortable against your skin. You clip the bra on next, followed by the garter around your waist. Then you finish off with the stockings over your legs, stopping at mid-thigh. After fastening the clips on the suspenders to the lace trim at the top of the hosiery, you sit at your vanity to apply some makeup and fix your hair. 

“‘Dress appropriately’,” you mutter as you pull your dress from your tiny closet, “Hopefully this is appropriate enough.”

You maneuver yourself into your dress, struggling with the zipper for a moment then smoothing the material over yourself. You slide your feet into your heels and teeter a bit as you stand up. 

You’re not planning to really impress too much, so you pull on a downy, puffy jacket to combat the sea breeze the city gets in the evenings. 

Pulling the strap of your bag onto your shoulder, you look in the mirror one last time. You catch the reflection of the clock: it’s almost seven thirty. Taking into account how long it’ll take for your rideshare to arrive at your house and the traffic in the city on a Saturday night, you’ll arrive at the hotel a little after eight. You suppose now’s a good a time as any to leave. 

Requesting a car for pickup, you realize there’s no going back. 

* * *

Stepping into the hotel lobby, you know you don’t belong here. 

With modern touches and old architectural charm, the men wearing luxury tailored suits and women wearing unaffordable dresses, you felt you stood out like a sore thumb. The most luxurious hotel you had stayed at was a Holiday Inn Express near Disneyland. And it barely had functioning lighting. 

You timidly approach the front desk. Though the receptionist gives you a warm smile, you’re not comforted. 

“Hi, I’m here to check in for Drysdale?”

The man’s eyebrows raise in what you assume is recognition. 

_Maybe this “Ransom” meets other escorts here often, then._

“While we would normally ask you to cover the fees upon checking in, Mr. Drysdale is a very good friend of the hotel so we’ve accommodated his request to make an exception,” the man informs you as he types away. He grabs a keycard and hands it to you. 

“You’ll be in room 6-F. Have a pleasant stay.”

“Thank you,” you say meekly, taking the card before turning to take an elevator up. 

Once on the sixth floor, you locate and unlock the room. The lights turn on automatically and you’re met with a cool gray toned room, which gives the room a darker atmosphere already. 

The entrance is narrow and you assume the bathroom is on the other side of the wall on your right. With wobbly steps, you move forward and see the room open up. 

The first thing you notice is the king-sized bed. Beyond it, the windows show illuminated facades of buildings outside. On the wall opposite the bed is a desk with a speaker and aux cord on top of the marble workspace and a fridge underneath. A TV is mounted on the wall above the desk. Next to it is an open wardrobe with a bathrobe hanging, cubbies and drawers, as well as a tray of refreshments. 

You set your bag on the bottom shelf of the wardrobe and retrieve the remote to turn on the TV to create some white noise and maybe kill some time (and nerves) as you wait for nine o’clock to come around. 

You wander into the bathroom and look yourself over in the mirror. You shake out your hands and pace, deciding to take off your heels for now as you pad around the room. 

* * *

Ransom was bored of dinner and his host knew it. Everyone else kept a level of decorum, but all the guests knew this get together was extending much longer than necessary. 

Checking his watch, it was quarter to nine. He threw back the rest of his drink before nodding to his friend and exchanging brief glances as he got up. Haphazard goodbyes were thrown his way as he pulled on his jacket and Ransom gave a nod of acknowledgement. He exits the restaurant, whistling to get the valet’s attention and handing the man his ticket as he pulls out his phone. 

> _Where are you?_ he messages you. 
> 
> **_At the hotel, sir. Room 6-F._ **

“‘Sir’,” he muses to himself, smirking at the title you’d given him. He didn’t even need to tell you to address him that way. 

> _Have them bring up my usual from the bar._
> 
> **_Yes, sir._ **

Wondering how far he can take this, he asks you to send him a picture. 

He’s surprised with how quickly you comply. You’re sat on top of the sheets at the edge of the bed, leaned forward so your elbow can rest on your knee and the camera can get a view of the plunging neckline of your dress. Your hair falls nicely over your face and your palm cradles your chin. 

He can’t lie, he loves the way you look. You may as well be the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen. 

Taking a few deep breaths, he wills himself to calm down; he can’t get hard yet. 

He puts his phone into one pocket and reaches into the other as the valet returns with his car. When the valet approaches, Ransom hands over a few sad, crumpled bills as a tip before walking around to the driver’s side of his car and climbing in. Sending one last message to you, he pulls away from the curb and heads to the hotel. 

* * *

> **_I’m on my way. Make sure my drink is there before me._ **

You let out a spastic sound of nervousness and shook out your hands again before getting up to pace around the room again. 

The drink was on the way, you placed the order as soon as he told you to. You didn’t want to give him any excuse to not pay or complain you were unsatisfactory. Though, not having any experience in bed might prove that mission to be difficult regardless of whether or not his drink came in time. 

There’s a knock on the door and you jog over, pulling the door open to find a waiter holding a tray with a glass of what you assume is Scotch perched on top, covered with one of those signature little hats hotels always place on top of glasses. 

“Thank you,” you smile, carefully receiving the glass from him. He bows silently and turns to leave. 

You shut the door and place the glass on a coaster you find on the desk. You bother yourself with where the glass should rest (next to the speaker? on the far end, closest to the wardrobe?). Deciding it should be on the bedside table, you move the glass and coaster there then return to the desk to plug your phone in and play some music. You cringe at your choice to include Ed Sheeran in this playlist, but there’s no going back now. 

Suddenly, you hear the clicking sound of the door unlocking and you scramble over to sit on the bed to put your heels on. 

When you look up, you’re shocked to not find a man in his late 50s, nor the severe looking woman you’ve seen plastered on real estate posters. 

You find a man who can’t be that much older than you, dark hair and blue eyes that stand out in the dim light of the entry hallway. His cheeks are pale and rosy, framed by a strong jawline. He’s tall, crown of his head so high towards the ceiling. His broad shoulders nearly touch either side of the walls as he approaches you. 

He’s dressed rather casually, as if he was out to dinner with friends. The color palette of his outfit matches the hotel room: cool gray henley shirt, black blazer and jeans, finished off with a pair of brown boots and belt to match. If you’re honest, he looks like a model. He looks like he could have any woman he wanted. 

_Why the hell does he want a virgin?_

When he comes to stand in the room, hands tucked into his pockets, he looks you up and down from where you’re seated. His lips pucker thoughtfully and you see how perfectly pink and full they are and you wonder what it would be like to kiss them…

_Nope. We’re not doing that. It’s a one time thing and that’s that. You remind yourself._

His eyes catch the glass on the bedside table and he plucks it up, removing the paper covering before bringing it to his lips to drink.

When the glass is halfway to his mouth, he hooks a finger at you. “Stand up.”

As he drinks, you obey, rising from your place on the mattress and smoothing down your dress before folding your hands together. 

He pauses his sipping, “Turn.” 

Hands falling out of each other’s grip, they land at your sides rather limply and you begin turning, giving him a three-sixty view of your body. You feel heat creeping up your neck and settling into your cheeks. 

When you come back to face him, he throws his head back to finish his drink and places the glass back on the bedside table, but he misses the coaster. You cringe inwardly at the ring that will surely form on the surface later. 

Your breath catches in your throat when your eyes meet his. You feel like a deer in headlights, unmoving as his gaze continues to flit over your figure. You wonder if he knows you’re holding your breath. You wonder if he can hear how quickly your heart is pounding. 

When he goes to take off his jacket, things start feeling real. You don’t know how to describe the sound that leaves your throat, maybe something a frightened toad would make. Ransom halts and throws you a perplexed look and you cover your mouth in embarrassment. 

He rolls his eyes. “You nervous?”

The words blend together, but his voice is so honeyed and silken and you can’t help but sigh inwardly at the sound of it. 

Your jaw is slack and can’t make any sounds rise from your larynx. You snap your mouth shut and manage to nod stiffly. 

Rolling his eyes again, he crosses the room to the mini fridge under the desk and pulls the door open. Crouching down, he shuffles through the various little bottles inside before turning and tossing one to you. 

Your balance teeters as you fumble to catch it, the glass slipping out of your grip a few times before you fully grasp it.

The cap makes a cracking sound as it separates from the tamper evident band when you twist it open. You don’t bother to look at the label or pay any mind to the color of the liquid. Once the bottle’s open, you tilt your head back and drink, feeling the burn travel down your throat. When you stop, you notice you’ve had almost all of it. 

Your eyes meet Ransom’s again and he raises his brows as if to ask, _Better?_

You finish the remaining contents of the bottle and feel the liquid settle in your belly as you twist the cap back on.

“Thank you,” you muster your voice to say. 

His eyebrows raise again, showing his disinterest, and he holds his hand out. You’re certain you resemble a child when you use both hands to carefully place the bottle in his hands. There’s a flicker of confusion that crosses his face and you think you were meant to place your hand in his, but he turns and places the bottle on the desk. 

There’s a sense of dread that settles in your stomach when you realize there really is no going back and no more stalling. You can’t read the expression on his face, but you’re certain he’s not pleased with how slowly this is going. 

Summoning your courage, you reach your hands up behind you and begin to pull the zipper down…


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: loss of virginity, explicit sexual content/smut, angst, dubcon, swearing

When Ransom first surveyed you sitting on the bed and fumbling with your shoes, he felt pleased with himself. Though he had seen a picture of you before, seeing you in a little tight number and sky-high heels was satisfying. You had obeyed him when he told you to dress appropriately. 

Your expression as he walks down the hall toward you is evident: you weren’t expecting someone like him. 

_What kind of man were you thinking of? Who were you fantasizing about?_

As you turned on your feet while he drank, he wondered what else could have been hiding under the black material, though there wasn’t much left to the imagination. It hugged your body well and gave a teasing show of your breasts. 

But if you continued to be nervous, this night wouldn’t be enjoyable for either of you, so he gave you the bottle of gin in the minibar. His treat, along with the hotel room. What’s another couple hundred dollars extra when he’s going to pay $50,000 for your cherry? Though Ransom knows he’s an asshole, he wouldn’t say he’s _completely_ heartless. 

Is he a good son? Definitely not. He’s a pretty okay grandson, but he has to be. Harlan’s giving him money. With anyone else in his family, he doesn’t bite his forked tongue. Rather, he spews insults and verbal jabs liberally. 

But, you nervously (and somewhat sloppily) chugging that gin isn’t meaningless to him. He gets it. This probably isn’t ideal. 

Some leftover liquid swishes in the bottle when you stop and the image of you swallowing your last gulp goes straight to his groin. 

He raises his eyebrows in a silent inquiry. 

You tilt your head back again to finish the last drops and he shamelessly watches your throat bob when you swallow again. 

_What he wouldn’t give to see you swallow him…_

“Thank you,” your mousy voice breaks his reverie. 

Liking the way your lips round at the last sound, his brows raise as he wonders what they taste like, especially with the gin on them. 

_One kiss. That’s acceptable._

Reaching his hand to you, ready to feel what it’s like to have your body close to his…he’s confused when you place the bottle in his palm. His face scrunches briefly but he knows when he’s been rejected, so he turns to place the bottle on the desk. 

When he turns to face you again, there’s a resigned look on your face, your eyes darting to the floor and around the room. He sees you slowly reach behind your back to the zipper of your dress. 

He doesn’t like it.

He surges forward and you freeze, eyes wide and looking into his. A large hand reaches behind you to grasp your wrist. Your entire body is still and pliant as he brings your hand forward.

Hands where he can see them, he releases your wrist and reaches behind you to blindly seek out the tongue of your zipper. He hears your breath catch when he pulls down and your dress begins to slacken around your body. 

You can’t help the instinct to hold the garment to yourself, hands flying to the neckline.

“No,” he says gruffly, pulling one hand away and the other follows. 

In the back of his mind, he wonders what has made you so desperate that you’re willing to advertise and sell your virginity to a stranger online. You seem so reluctant and unprepared.

Doesn’t matter. He bought it. It’s his for the taking. He gets to decide what to do. 

Undoing the rest of your zipper, your dress falls loose and he steps back. You help the clothing off yourself, bringing it down past your hips before it falls down your legs and onto the floor. 

Ransom doesn’t hide the smirk that spreads across his face. You couldn’t have had the lacy set of a bra and underwear before. He likes the idea of you buying it just for him. The garter belt and the stockings are almost like the bow on top; you’re the present he’s bought for himself. 

Standing in the pool of your dress, you see his eyes pass over you once, twice and a third time, simpering all the while. You step forward and he speaks again.

“Get on the bed.” 

Bending your knee to bring your foot up, your fingers curl around the stem of your heel to take one shoe off.

“I didn’t tell you to take those off.” 

Your startled gaze meets his shameless yet stern expression and you straighten your body.

“You didn’t, sir.” 

“And what _did_ I ask you to do?” he presses as if asking a child. 

“To get on the bed, sir.”

He raises his brows expectantly, then looks smug when you comply. The comforter fluffs around you, creating some considerable dips where your bottom and palms meet the sheet.

“Good girl,” he husks.

You’d never been referred to that way by a romantic partner. Though this encounter with Ransom was far from romantic, the words sparked something in you, igniting heat to spread through your body. 

You weren’t quite sure what that was about.

Ready to see more, Ransom juts his chin out wordlessly. He sees your hands come off the comforter and move up before hesitating. 

“Go on,” he coaxes, moving to take off his jacket now. It’s hot in the room. 

Bringing your hands behind you, your fingers fiddle with the clasp on the back of your bra. You know your chest visibly quakes from the apprehensive breaths you take. When the undergarment comes loose, your hands move to take it off. 

A wicked smile spreads over his face as your breasts come into view. A hand on each knee, he slowly opens your legs.

_Shit, are we just getting right to the point?_ you wonder anxiously. 

Ransom kneels between your knees and leans in, pressing some soft, slow kisses to your neck. 

The sensation is foreign. You can feel your cheeks flushing, your heart palpitating. His scent, woodsy with a hint of floral, paints images of a forest at night in your mind. Though your breath is shallow, it fills your nostrils, going straight to your head. His hands leave your knees and lay flat on the comforter near your hips to support his weight as he leans into you. 

Not knowing what to do with your hands, you try placing one over his. His hand doesn’t stay under yours for long, coming up to cup your breast. You inhale quickly through your nose and exhale through your mouth. 

Liking how responsive you are, he smirks into the skin of your neck. Predicting your reaction, he moves his lips up the column of your neck. He pinches the peak of your nipple and uses the gasp he elicits from you to press his tongue into your mouth. 

Your reaction is delayed, but eventually, you close your eyes and your tongue comes in to play with his. He groans deep in his throat, the rumble extending to your lips. Your hands move to cup his jaw. You let yourself get lost in the kiss and the sensations he’s drawing from his ministrations to your breast, feeling it all go straight to your core. When he pulls away, you’re both a little breathless. 

Ransom takes his hand from your breast and grips at your waist, pushing your hips up to coax you into lying on your back. He hovers over you, eyes blown out that you can just see the slightest ring of blue around his dilated pupils. 

You think he might kiss you again (you want him to, quite honestly) but instead, he chains kisses down your neck and over your chest. Stopping at your breast, he licks and suckles, stimulating the hardening peak of your nipple. His left hand comes into play on your opposite breast, pinching and squeezing there. 

It all makes you so dizzy and you feel more sparks and heat. 

“Damn,” you gasp, right hand leaving Ransom’s head to grip the sheets. Your left, having moved from his jaw into his hair when he moved lower, gently latches onto the soft brown locks. 

“Mmm,” he hums and you feel his lip curl against your skin. “Like that? Hm?” he presses.

“Yes,” you sigh, completely surrendering whatever restraint you told yourself you were going to have. 

Hell, you had heard sex was supposed to feel good. Why _should_ you have any restraint on the pleasure you were supposed to receive?

“Yes, what?” Ransom asks sternly, pausing his movements. You’re a little perturbed and look at him to see a severe look on his face.

“Y-Yes, sir,” you stumble out. 

Appearing satisfied, he maintains eye contact with you as he resumes his actions briefly before pressing a kiss to your sternum between your breasts. 

Reaching down, you feel him fiddle with the lacy waistband of your underwear.

“Away with these,” he mutters before he leans back. 

Now, it’s quite apparent that you did not think the technicalities of your outfit through. In all the pictures you had seen, the suspenders of the garter belt are over the models’ panties. But now, if your client wants you to keep the garter and stockings on (which you’re assuming is the case because he _only_ told you to do away with your underwear) you need to unclip the suspenders, take off your underwear and then clip them again. 

_Stupid_ , you mock yourself. 

Trying not to make a complete fool of yourself, you fumble with the straps and clips of the lingerie to comply with his instructions. Your cheeks flush when Ransom rolls his eyes. 

He occupies himself with taking off his shirt and toeing off his boots. Setting them aside with his jacket, he returns when you discard your thin scrap of lace to the side. 

It’s then that you get a good look at him. If there is a God, He must have commissioned Michelangelo to sculpt him. His skin is smooth and flawless, tight against the muscles of his torso. A thin layer of hair spans across his chest and more concentrated on his lower belly. You can see how happy he looks with himself as he watches you ogle him. 

“Like what you see?” 

You don’t know if you’re in a position to have any pride. So far, you’ve fumbled for your heels when he walked in and had to partially disassemble your outfit in order to maintain a certain level of sexual appeal by keeping the stockings and garter on. Not to mention you’re completely bare to him. The only body parts that are still covered are your legs. 

Oddly, you feel a curious surge of arousal when you nod, prompting him to crawl back onto the bed over you. 

“Let’s get you ready, hm?” he hums, dipping his head into your neck again to press his lips against the skin there. Your hands automatically go to his head, your fingers tangling in the soft brown locks of hair. 

Ransom is satisfied that he’ll never see you again. Your scent, fresh and bright, brings up childhood memories of rolling around the grass on his grandfather’s front lawn in the springtime. It causes something to twist in his belly, something warm and fuzzy that he hasn’t experienced since he had his first kiss with his middle school crush. The feeling of you under him feels like sitting in front of a fire during winter. He’s so warm and comfortable here.

He’ll never admit it. You’ll never know. 

He fucks women when the moon is high and leaves them before the sun rises. He does as he pleases and answers to nobody (except his parents when they don’t stop calling him). 

Sex is meaningless to him. It’s nothing more than high diving pleasure and an opportunity for women to stroke his ego. It’s fast and rough and detached. 

But why is he so willing to slow down for you? What is that insipid prickle of emotion that he’s feeling right now?

He doesn’t care to think about it further. Nobody will ever know what you’ve done to him. Least of all, you.

His touch is feather-light as it passes over your arm, down your side and over the rounded surface of your thigh. Delicately, a finger grazes just over your lower lips.

“You’re pretty well along,” he smirks. You take it that he’s pleased with how aroused you apparently are, though you yourself don’t have much of an idea of how ready your body is. “Let’s help you a little further…” 

With his index and middle finger, he spreads you open, exposing you to the air of the room. It’s then you feel the dampness coating your sex. Ransom nearly groans when you gasp out curiously. You’re so responsive to everything and it makes his head spin. 

You feel him adjust his digits before one finger presses lightly along your core, teasing as it goes. You had only known your own touch prior to this, and feeling someone navigate his way around your body…you couldn’t possibly articulate how it felt. 

Above your sex, Ransom gave a few experimental passes with the pad of his finger. He knew he found what he was looking for when you gripped the sheets and gasped wetly. 

He wants to always be able to draw such reactions from you. 

“Shh,” he hushes you, lips puckered against your neck before he places an open-mouthed kiss and darts his tongue out to taste the skin there. 

His kisses combined with the sporadic bursts of pleasure you feel as his finger passes over your clit makes you feel like you’re floating. You’ve never felt anything like this before.

It makes you forget that he paid $50,000 to be here. 

He continues his teasing touches for a few long moments, drawing heavy breaths and a few whimpers from your mouth. 

“God,” he grunts, “want more.” 

You’re surprised at how ragged his voice sounds. When he adjusts his fingers again, one poised at your opening, you open your eyes to focus on the ceiling. 

Pressing his digit into your entrance, you feel it slowly sink in. Your hands fall off and grip the sheets in tight fists as you try to keep your breathing even. 

Ransom, on the other hand, feels almost wrecked. You’re _so snug_ around _one finger_ and it goes straight to his groin. He can’t imagine what it’ll be like to finally get his cock in you. 

It’s so strange to you, the feeling of something inside you. With every stroke of his finger, you feel how closely your walls are wrapped around him. It’s all you focus on while he holds still within you. Then he slowly withdraws, and you feel empty. When it presses forward again, you gasp as if the movement pushes your breath from your lungs. 

You cry out when he slides a second finger in. You feel completely delirious, overwhelmed at everything you’re feeling. There was ecstasy, pain and so much curiosity. 

Drawing out his fingers, he surprises you when he quickly thrusts them back in, causing a choked sound to come from your throat. 

He hushes at you, pressing his lips to yours. 

“Can’t wait,” he whispers against your lips, sounding pained. 

Having been cocooned underneath him, the cold air rushes to you when he pulls away from you. Sitting up, you watch in anticipation as he undoes his belt and rushes to rid himself of his lower clothes, plucking a foil packet from his pocket. 

_Well, I’m out ten bucks,_ you think. 

A sharp, quiet gasp sounds when you lay eyes on him as he rolls the condom onto himself–he’s well-endowed. 

By now, you know the self-satisfied smirk that appears on his face. You can’t help retreating a little, backing away from him on the bed. 

Ransom clasps a hand around your ankle firmly, pulling you toward him so you lie flat on the bed again. 

You watch him crawl back over you, his cock bobbing with his movement. You’re _certain_ the fright is evident on your face as he plants his palms next to your head and his face hovers above yours. 

This man has been impersonal with you all night. He didn’t even introduce himself to you. He gave you a drink, which you suppose can count as some sort of friendly gesture. Will he let you stay when this is done? You don’t even know. 

All interactions considered, you are _utterly confused_ when he gently tucks a piece of hair behind your ear. You forget your fright and your breathing isn’t so heavy anymore. 

“Relax,” he whispers. 

Your words stumble and fail you until all you can say is a barely audible, “Okay.”

You let your muscles go loose, starting at your arms and ending with a little wiggle of your toes, still boxed into your heels. You can’t wait to take them off. 

Moving one hand down to grasp himself, he poises himself at your entrance. Trying to brace yourself, you shut your eyes tightly. 

Feeling the wide head of him press slowly into you, your eyes pop open and you try not to move, cringe or close in on yourself. He’s looking at you, but you can’t look at him. Your eyes focus on the ceiling again and you take some slow, deep breaths. Deciding it’s better to close your eyes, you repeat a mantra in your head. 

_This is for grad school, this is for my future…_

There’s a burning sensation as your walls stretch to fit him as he continues to move forward and you feel as if you’re splitting in half. Your lips round and release patterned puffs of air, something you do to prevent yourself from crying. 

_This is for grad school…_

When he eventually bottoms out in you, he stills, the same way he did with his fingers. You feel unbelievably full and you can’t imagine what you look like to him, eyes shut as you try to remain completely calm. 

You don’t know how long he stays stationed inside you before he starts moving, retracting his hips and moving them forward again. His pace is slow at first and you don’t protest. 

_This is for my future._

As he continues his rhythm, you feel pockets of pleasure here and there, drawing soft hums from you. Your grip loosens a little and your eyes aren’t shut so tightly. 

“There you go,” he grunts over the sound of his hips colliding with yours. 

You open your eyes at the sound of his voice to find his gaze trained on you, causing more confusion to swirl with the pleasure that’s starting to cloud your mind. You wish you knew what he was thinking. 

Your eyelids flutter shut again and at particularly good thrust, then you feel lips against your neck again, nipping and kissing at the skin there. 

Ransom’s pace quickens and he growls. You feel your walls tighten at the sound, drawing out another groan from him.

“Goddamn,” he moans, then a string of profanities. 

Your hands grip the sheets again as he delivers a few measured, powerful thrusts before stopping altogether. One more kiss is pressed to your neck before he pulls out and away from you. 

You lay, slightly dazed. You bring yourself back to earth by rubbing the sheets between your fingers, feeling the cotton and downy feathers within them. When you once couldn’t quite feel anything, you suddenly feel everything. 

The insides of your thighs hurt and your core feels sensitive. Your breathing is choppy, causing your chest to stutter as it expands and collapses with every inhale and exhale. 

You whimper when you close your legs and heavily rely on your arms to help you sit up, only to shrink into yourself. Your core is sore. Your hands grasp at the opposite shoulders and your back hunches.

When you see him again, Ransom is already fully clothed and his hair is back in order. He’s looking at his phone and tapping on the screen before he pockets it and looks at you. 

“They said the payment should reflect on your bank account by Monday, Tuesday at the latest,” he says, sounding bored. “You can stay here if you want. Check out’s at eleven.”

You can’t find any words, so you only nod then your eyes move down. 

“Right, um,” he pauses, “Goodnight, then.”

You watch his boots as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. He turns and you see the heels of them walking away. 

Before he leaves, you speak.

“Thank you.” 

His tone is puzzled as he replies. “You’re welcome…?”

The door slams as he leaves. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: minor spoiler for Knives Out

Ransom slams the door of his car as he sits in the driver’s seat.

_His fucking family._

There was meant to be a “pleasant Sunday brunch-adjacent get-together” for the release party of Harlan’s newest book. His family is never pleasant no matter what day they gather, so Ransom should’ve known it would’ve turned into a shitshow. 

_Walt had been parading around boasting about how proud he was of “his and dad’s new book” to anyone outside of the family who would listen. Ransom’s father decided to pick a little fight with him, despite his mother’s urging not to._

_“But they aren’t_ your _books, are they Walt?” Richard taunted, “They’re Harlan’s books.”_

_Ransom had parked himself right at the refreshments table, nudging the platter of breakfast pastries closer to himself. He idly picked up a croissant and nibbled as he watched everything unfold. “Shit stirring prick,” Meg muttered as she grabbed a cup of coffee._

_“This is_ all them, _Meggy,” he said, his mouth full of soft, buttery croissant flakes. “I’m just getting a front row seat for the entertainment.”_

 _Meg rolled her eyes and walked away. Walt had smiled simply before replying. “Of course, Richard. Just like how the real estate company is Linda’s, not_ yours.”

_Linda then elbowed Richard, a hard signal to defend himself from her little brother’s jab like the “proud husband” he’s supposed to be._

_“At least Linda was able to build something on her own.” Ransom rolled his eyes at that statement while his mother patted his father on the shoulder._

_“Only because dad was generous enough to loan her a million dollars to build that company.”_

_Ransom dipped his croissant into his coffee and smirked as he chewed. When his father didn’t say anything, his mother blew her cap at both of them._

_It started out relatively quiet before escalating into a full on spectacle. Across the room, Ransom saw Harlan exchange a look with Marta, his nurse, before completely ignoring the situation and returning to the conversation he was having with a guest._

_“You can’t say shit, Richard, you’re getting_ nothing _from his family!”_

_Ransom laughed loudly at the truth in that declaration. The three pairs of eyes turned and fingers pointed at him before insults were spewed his way._

_Rolling his eyes, he let them at him, not caring what they were saying. It was all true. He was a little piece of shit, an entitled prick, he was all of it._

_Because of them._

_Leaving his half eaten croissant in his coffee cup, he placed it on the table and coolly sauntered across the room, slander following him all the way until it was directed back within the group._

Ransom had grabbed a copy of the book, given his granddad a nod of acknowledgement as a goodbye, then left. If he listened hard enough, he could hear the yelling all the way from the parking lot. Harlan looked a little disappointed as he left. 

What did Harlan ever do for him anyway, besides give him a generous monthly allowance? What did his parents ever do for him? His mother spent her days running a real estate company while his father devoted his time to doing everything he could to get his hands on some of that money. 

And where did Ransom fall in all of this? 

Nobody actually cared about him. They shut him up with money and invited him to parties to make him feel like he was part of something. In reality, his family was nothing to be a part of. There wasn’t anything to them. Just a pile of mystery novels that turned words into money and fed it to hungry beasts. And Ransom was one of them. 

That’s what he was, that’s what he was always meant to be. His mother never let him be a kid. When the grass was bright green after all the snow melted and Ransom rolled around, staining his crisp private school uniform with virescent splotches, she yelled at him. When she instructed her husband to continue the scolding, he gave a half-assed, “Don’t do it again.” The day was ruined after that. 

And somehow, in the moment when he breathed in your perfume, he remembered one of the few moments where he was content: watching the world spin as the sky was down and the ground was up and the conifers looked like stalactites in a strange cave. 

He _loved_ remembering that. And it _terrified_ him. The second he started remembering the brief golden moments of his childhood, he knew it was best to get himself off as soon as possible and take off. He’d hold on to memories of how you felt around his cock for when he couldn’t get between a girl’s legs. 

He’ll never admit to anyone how often he thinks of you and the time he spent sharing a bed with you. 

Shaking his head and starting the car, he pulled away from the party venue and drove through the city. At a stoplight, he picks up the hefty novel and flips it to the back cover.

He reads something about a statue and a dead art historian. Rolling his eyes, already disinterested, he throws the book back on the seat. 

Passing through the university area, Ransom decides to grab a cup of coffee. He pulls into a parking spot, ignoring the blinking red light of the meter as he gets out to enter the cafe. 

He does a double take when he sees you exiting with a man. You look completely different: your hair is in a messy ponytail and your makeup is more natural, focusing on accentuating your features instead of looking glamorous. You’re donning a sweater with the name of the university just across the street. 

He’s rendered immobile at the sight of you. His thoughts come crashing down on him like an avalanche.

It’s been nearly two months since that night. He’s filled the days and weeks between now and then with various girls, all of whom were confident and sexy and unafraid to match his pace in bed. He could have any one of them at his doorstep with a snap of his fingers. 

So why is he suddenly frozen, watching you and some guy walk down the street? 

It was ridiculous, really, how much he had dreamt of your encounter, tried to recall your smell and the taste of your skin. He hates that he never got a sample from between your legs. He’d been so caught up in how you felt around his finger that it went straight to his cock and he just had to be inside you. 

He’s never been so caught up on anyone before. 

When he drinks whiskey, he sees you, turning in your dress and heels. He wonders if maybe he could see you again, maybe you’d be more confident, maybe more experienced…

Have you slept with anyone since July? Have you slept with the guy you’re with now?

His wonder causes him to mindlessly follow after you, sights set on the bright scrunchie that keeps your hair together as he imagines you underneath the guy you’re walking with, crying out as he thrusts into you…

Ransom doesn’t like the idea of that. He hates it, shakes his head to dispel it from his brain. Then he stops suddenly. 

But what does it matter? You weren’t anyone to him, just some girl on a website who auctioned your virginity and he bought it. He didn’t buy _you_. You weren’t _his_ to own.

He’d be lying if he said he felt he got his money’s worth though. 

When he thinks about that night, besides all the erotic images of your face and how you felt wrapped so tightly around him, there was something underneath the heat and lust he felt. He saw curiosity come across your face multiple times that night and he felt the same. 

He wanted to know what you’d look like on top. He wanted to know what you tasted like (he still hates himself for not taking the opportunity). He wanted to know what sounds you’d make when he went rough. He wanted to know how you sounded when you let yourself succumb to complete, unrestrained pleasure. 

He knew you were holding back, he saw the terror that came across your face when you looked at his size. You barely even touched him. _God_ , how would you touch him? How would your hands feel on him, running over his skin? 

There were so many things he wanted to know about you, so many things he wanted to watch you do. 

It terrified him to remember the brief blissful moments of his childhood while he was with you, and that’s why he left so quickly. But one night with you wasn’t enough.

The thought propels him forward, stepping after you again once he spies your scrunchie again. 

You’re turning a corner; he needs to catch up. His pace quickens. 

_When has he_ ever _chased a girl before?_

As he rounds the corner, Ransom sees you stepping into a shop, appearing to playfully curtsey as the man holds the door open for you. He slows down a little, wanting it to appear as if he’s casually walking around. When he reaches the shop, he realizes it’s a used bookstore. 

_Maybe I can grab Harlan’s book and pretend I’m selling it._

He decides against it though. He doesn’t want to risk you getting away from him. He enters the shop and immediately goes for the taller shelves to conceal himself from plain view. Peeking between the tops of the books and the next shelf above it, he spots you. You’re near the back, looking at the large, brightly colored children’s books. 

_Shit, did he get you pregnant?!_

Ransom shakes his head then smiles to himself; he remembers hearing you gasp when he rolled a condom onto himself. He feels his cock twitch at the memory. 

“God, it’s so ridiculous that we have to buy our own books for clinicals,” he hears you gripe. 

“Yeah, but it’s good practice for when we’re actually in the field,” the man nudges you with his elbow, “We’re gonna have to figure out which books will suit clients’ interest and all.” 

“Yeah, I guess. I just wish I didn’t have to do this before work tonight.”

“Don’t you work at eight, though?”

_Work? Why are you working when he gave you so much money?_

“Yeah, but it’s less time preparing for seminar tomorrow. Not to mention the paper for fluency. Ugh, being a grad student is so hard, Toby,” you moan, leaning your forehead on his shoulder.

A hot puff of air shoots out from Ransom’s nose.

“Oh, stop it, you big baby. C’mon. It’s barely past one. We’re gonna get this done, then go back to my place and study a little. And remember why we’re doing this?” he asks, turning so his front is facing you. Your head sags for a moment, having leaned the weight of your skull on him before your neck straightens. 

“To help kids become better communicators,” you say together, as if it’s a mantra. 

“Exactly,” the man–Toby–smiles. “Besides, it’s Sunday. I’m pretty sure the diner won’t be super crowded like it was for me last night. If anything, it’s crowded with people trying to cure their hangovers right now. Then, when the diner’s empty, you can study. It’s just on the next block over, anyway. They know you’re a student, so I don’t think they’ll kick up a fuss if you crack open a notebook. It’s just you and the cook, too, right?”

You hum in affirmation as you pick up a book and tuck it under your arm. 

“So, that just shows they know nobody’s gonna be there! You’re golden!” 

You giggle as you swat his hand away when he makes to pinch you. Ransom leans forward into the bookcase in an attempt to get closer to you, enchanted by the sound. 

_What the hell has gotten into him?!_

“Sir, can I help you find something?” a store associate startles him.

“What–no, no. Absolutely not,” Ransom spews, fumbling around with his hands trying to look inconspicuous. His leather jacket squeaks with his movements. The associate looks confused, tilting their head as they watch him. 

“I’m just leaving,” he shakes his head, making his way to storm out the door. 

He makes his way back to his car, taking note of the diner Toby was talking about. It really was on the next block over, hard to miss with a gaudy 50s-style neon green light-up sign and fluorescent pink lettering.

Ransom smiles to himself as he makes his way back to his car. He knows exactly what to do.

* * *

The lighting in the diner is harsh against Ransom’s eyes and he blinks a little as he gets out of his car. It’s just before midnight and the streets are empty, save for a few students who are walking into the coffeeshop and drugstores around the block. Stepping in, checkered black and light gray tiles lay on the floor, though he’s certain the gray tiles are supposed to be white. There’s a counter with a bunch of red cushioned stools and booths all around the wall. 

“Evenin’ son,” the cook says as he peeks through the window on the wall beyond the counter. “You just take a seat right up here and our hostess will be right out.”

The man turns away and shouts your name.

Ransom smirks at the sound of your name, perching himself on a stool and immediately getting comfortable. The only thing that would make this better would be if the stools had backs so he could put his feet up. Instead, he rests his elbow on the counter and waits for you to come.

The kitchen door swings open.

“Sorry to keep you waiting–” your sentence stops short and he smiles deviously at you.

You’re in the same makeup and ponytail from earlier, though this time a pen is nestled where your hair is gathered, kept in place by the scrunchie you’ve been wearing. Instead of your university sweatshirt, you’re sporting a denim blue button up waitress dress, complete with a sewn on oval white patch with your name stitched into it. There’s a white apron tied around your waist. 

His smirk deepens more. If anything, this is almost like the start to a bad porn film. One where he’d bend you over the counter and–

“Hi, Ransom,” you greet him, interrupting his almost fantasy. 

“Hey,” he nods, so satisfied in your surprised expression. 

You awkwardly place the menu in front of him and wring your hands a little.

“Can I get you anything to drink? Coffee?”

Ransom hums, pink lips puckering before he answers, “Hot chocolate, actually.”

Your nod is a little perplexed. “Okay, right. I’ll go get that for you.”

You turn to the espresso machine behind you and Ransom likes the view of your ass he’s treated to as he opens the menu. Once he’s decided, he looks up, seeing your back still turned to him as you watch hot chocolate trickle into a mug. He knows it can’t be _that_ interesting.

“Hey,” he calls, disrupting your focus.

You whirl around, ponytail whipping about with the movement of your head. “Huh?”

“I’m ready,” he says, holding up the menu.

“Oh,” you reach into the pocket of your apron and pull out a notepad before plucking the pen from your hair. “What’ll it be?”

He multitasks, reciting his order and watching you at the same time. You seem to be avoiding looking at him, even when you ask him to clarify what bread he wants for his toast. Your eyes briefly dart up from your notepad to his face when you repeat his order.

When he hums in affirmation that you got his order correct, your movements seem to buffer. 

_Got her_ , he thinks. 

You rip the sheet from the pad and hand it to the cook.

“Man, Monte Cristo crepes? At this time of night?” the man whines.

Ransom gives an apathetic shrug.

“Well, alright then. You better tip our little miss here well so that she can split it with me.”

Ransom watches as you press your palm into your forehead, probably cringing at the idea of him tipping you after he paid you $50,000. 

You turn back to the espresso machine and grab the mug, carefully carrying it to him.

“Whipped cream?” you offer, taking out the silver canister from the fridge underneath the counter. 

“No,” he shakes his head, “I’d prefer having that in the bedroom.” 

You seem to huff a laugh at that and you put the canister back where it belongs. 

He takes a sip, then his face scrunches. 

“What? What’s wrong?”

“Is this imported?” 

It appears you can’t help the bewildered smile that comes across your face. “Um, I don’t know where it’s from, but I don’t think it’s imported.”

“Oh.” He gives an experimental sip, holding the liquid in his mouth before he swallows.

“Is it okay?” you ask.

_So you’re a people pleaser… or you’re just a waitress trying to make sure your customer’s satisfied._

“Yeah, it’s acceptable.”

“Oh, good,” you smile, relieved. 

He only nods and turns his attention to the rest of the diner. It really is only the three of you there. Again, the idea of this situation being like a bad porno crosses Ransom’s mind. 

When he looks at you again, you’re cleaning the coffee machine.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“Cleaning the coffee machine.”

“No, what are you doing here?”

You turn to look at him. “I’m working…?”

“Well, I can see that, but I gave you fifty grand.” 

Your head whips to look over at the cook. Ransom’s eyes follow, seeing he’s occupied at the stove. He didn’t appear to hear anything. “Fifty grand’s not nothing. Did they not send you the payment?”

“You know, I could ask you what you’re doing here, too. I didn’t pin you as someone who lived in the university area,” you say, changing the subject. 

“I don’t live around here.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

Your eyes narrow. He can see you’re strategizing. 

“If I answer your questions, will you answer mine?”

“Sure,” Ransom relaxes as much as he can, though he has to be honest, the stool doesn’t give him that much lounging real estate. 

“They sent me the payment.”

“So, why are you working?”

“I go to school across the street. The money you gave me is enough to pay for the tuition costs not covered by financial aid. But I need to pay for books and rent and groceries. And it’ll be four more semesters until I finish my degree, so I’ll need a little more than what you gave me to keep my head above water.”

So _that’s_ why you thanked him. He helped pay for your education. 

He nods, sipping his chocolate. As a plot forms in his head, he has to admit, for some cheap, unimported trash, it’s growing on him. Said plot would involve him getting what he wants from you and you no longer needing to work in this dump. He goes to open his mouth and you turn with a smile of your own. 

“You said if I answer your questions, then you’d answer mine.” 

“And if I don’t answer your question?” he challenges. 

You smile. “Then this conversation is over.”

You raise your eyebrows expectantly at him and he shakes his head, giving a half-shrug. 

“Just here to grab some Monte Cristo crepes and kill a craving,” he lies. Maybe the craving part is true, though. 

You hum in acknowledgment, though he’s not sure you fully accept his answer. Taking the towels you used to clean the coffee machine, you disappear into the back. When you return, you’re holding a notebook. 

“How long have you been working here?” 

“Why do you care?”

“Just trying to make conversation,” he feigns innocence.

“You don’t strike me as the kind of man who does that.”

Ah, so suddenly you have the ability to get a read on people? What other things does he not know about you? Your encounter at the hotel made him think you were some naive young woman who was sheltered all her life. In the fifteen minutes he’s been here, you’re showing him you’re anything but.

 _What else is there to discover about you?_ he wonders.

“I’m just asking because I might be able to help you. Financially.”

“Ransom, I have nothing else left to offer,” you say. 

_So you think._

“And your payment was more than generous.”

The cook calls to you and places a plate on the kitchen window sill. You grab it and set Ransom’s order in front of him.

“Anything else I can get you?”

“Nothing…for now,” he remarks suggestively. 

You nod once and open your notebook. As Ransom revels in the cheesy goodness of the crepes in front of him, he watches you quickly jot down things onto the paper and listens to you mutter to yourself. 

As he scarfs down all the greasy morsels and chases each bite with hot chocolate, he considers badgering you more. But seeing how stressed you look, he decides to back off. 

_If you were his mother, on the other hand…_

When he’s done, he snaps his fingers at you. You look unamused at the gesture but clear his plate anyway. You bring it back to the kitchen. He hears some chatter and the sink running before you return and stand at the register. He’s again treated to a view of your ass as you shift from one foot to another while processing the transaction. 

“I’m taking fifteen,” the cook calls to you.

“Alright,” you shout back, tearing away his receipt, and Ransom’s ready with a couple of bills. 

“Just keep the change,” he winks at you. “Well, maybe give some of it to your grumpy cook.”

He likes the way you laugh at his comment. 

“Thanks,” you smile at him again. “See you…whenever I guess.”

“Actually,” he begins, “about that help I can give you…”

You sigh. “I already told you, there’s nothing else I can offer you. You,” he watches as you pause and laugh humorlessly,” You paid for my virginity and you got it. Unless you have a kid who needs help with reading or writing, I don’t think–”

“I’m not paying you to tutor anyone.” Ransom bites the inside of his cheek as he smiles at himself. 

_Maybe you can help Walt with some comprehension issues._

“I was thinking…you and I can come to some sort of arrangement.”

“‘Arrangement’?” You lean against the counter with the espresso machine, arms folded across your chest as you face him. 

“Yeah. You live with me, I cover whatever other living costs you need. And _you_ ,” he says, one corner of his mouth curls up wickedly as he leans his arms on the counter in an attempt to get closer to you, “You keep me entertained.”

The way your eyes widen slightly at the word “entertained” tells him you know exactly what he means. 

“I don’t think so,” you scoff, shaking your head and walking to retrieve your notebook.

Well, that wasn’t the answer he was expecting. 

“Excuse me?” he asks, appalled. His eyes follow your figure walking to the other side of the counter. 

“I don’t think so,” you repeat plainly.

What even is this? He’s never been rejected by a woman before. They fell at his feet all the time. There were some that played hard to get, but they always came crawling to him in the end. 

He has to admit, though, he _does_ like this side of you. 

“Why not?” he presses.

You look around as if to check if anyone’s around to hear you. “I didn’t even orgasm, Ransom,” you laugh. “I’d rather rough it and have a job here instead of entering an arrangement where I’m not going to get _something_ out of it.”

“You’re getting something out of it,” Ransom says, standing up to follow you across the counter. “I told you, I’ll cover your living costs.”

“I mean something _pleasurable_ , you doofus.”

You turn to go into the kitchen. 

Normally, Ransom isn’t a man who begs. But he _always_ gets what he wants. And hell, he wants you and all the memories you bring back to him. He wants to uncover you layer by layer until he reaches your very core and knows you inside and out.

_God, what is this mushy stuff he’s thinking right now?_

“Whoa, whoa, wait, wait, wait,” he says. “You didn’t…? And because of that you don’t wanna do this?”

“No.”

“Listen, I can make you cum,” he states firmly, index finger pressing into the countertop as if to make his point.

“You don’t need to get so worked up over this, Ransom,” he scowls when you laugh at him, “You’re a handsome guy. I’m sure there’s plenty of other girls who will gladly take you up on your offer.”

Somehow, you calling him handsome doesn’t stroke his ego. Rather, it feels insulting. This is you letting him down easy. 

_Fuck no._

“I don’t want the other girls.”

“Is that to suggest you want _me_?” you inquire. 

“The arrangement isn’t going to benefit just me in bed,” he changes the subject. 

“Oh, it wouldn’t?” you say, unimpressed again. 

His smirk mirrors yours. 

_If it’s a game you want to play, game on._

“How about a deal?” 

Your eyes narrow. “What kind of deal?”

He rests his forearms on the counter this time. “I make you cum, you enter this arrangement with me. If not, you never have to see me again.”

He can see the gears turning in your head.

“Three,” you say.

“Sorry, what?” he shakes his head, confused.

“I wanna cum three times,” you tell him. 

He chuckles to himself. He likes that you’re not afraid to say what you want. Besides, another night with you would mean he gets his $50,000 worth. 

“Easy.”

“Well, then, Ransom, you got yourself a deal.” You offer your hand for him to shake.

Taking your hand, he yanks you towards him so you’re right up against the counter. He leans forward, your faces less than an inch apart. That glint of nervousness flashes in your eyes again and again, he chuckles.

“No. I got _you_.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: explicit sexual content/smut, angst, dubcon, swearing

You and Ransom had arranged for him to come to your microstudio apartment Friday night, after all your academic commitments had finished for the week and when you didn’t have work at the diner. 

The week was a whirlwind of classes, studying, clinicals, night shifts and sneaking off to the mall to buy another lingerie set (you found one on sale) and have another waxing (still just as painful as the first one). You didn’t dare let your friends in on what you were up to, unless you wanted them to badger you on who you were getting all dolled up for. 

Tonight is a whirlwind of _cleaning_ , though. You’d eaten dinner and cleared away your plate and utensils. Now you had a myriad of things to shove under your bed, into your closet or under the sink in the bathroom. You decided to lay down the family photo on your desk, the one taken on your grandmother’s latest milestone birthday. But you don’t need to accidentally spy their faces while having a boy over. 

You give yourself one last look in the mirror, your face done the same as everyday, but you had fixed your hair today. You wore a top that you would use for clinicals, but dressed it down with a pair of jeans. Your attempt to “dress appropriately” without having to squeeze into a dress and wear sky-high heels. 

_Where were those shoes, anyway?_

You jump at the sound of your phone chiming on the bed. A text from Ransom. 

> **_I’m here_ **
> 
> _Okay, I’m on my way._

You take one last look at the space, flipping the bedskirt down to hide the clutter underneath. 

Grabbing your keys, you tuck your feet into your slippers and go out into the hallway and down the stairs. You can see him through the glass paned door and past the gate, taking up the entire doorway as he leans with his forearm resting on the doorframe, waiting for you. It seems that the only shirts he owns are henleys, though this time he wears a brown trenchcoat to protect himself from the chilly autumn breeze. 

You unlock the door, then punch in the combination for the gate and he looks up at you from his phone.

“You know, typically when you wait outside the door of someone’s apartment complex, you move to the side in case someone needs to come in.” 

He raises his eyebrows in a way that says he heard your statement, but chooses to ignore it. Then, his eyes drift downward. “You know, typically when you have a booty call come over you don’t wear…” his eyes narrow. “What are those, colorful elephants?”

“They’re Heffalumps,” you say bashfully, your eyes going down too as you curl your toes, causing the characters to wiggle a little. “From _Winnie the Pooh_.” 

He nods in acknowledgement, though you can read on his face that he doesn’t care. 

“Um, anyway, this way.” 

His footsteps are heavy as you walk through the aged building, contradicting your light steps.

“Can you just…walk quieter, maybe?” you ask him just as you take him to the stairs. 

He raises his eyebrows as if he were insulted, then reluctantly nods before motioning you to start up the steps. 

You’re surprised he heeds your instructions; you barely hear the stairs creak as he climbs with you. 

He continues to tread quietly through the hallway and you unlock the door. He steps in after you and shuts the door with a slam behind him. You close your eyes and sigh a little; you know you’re gonna hear it from at least one of your neighbors when you see them next. 

Looking around your shoebox of an apartment, Ransom wrinkles his nose. 

“You _live_ here?”

You sigh, imagining the palace this asshole most likely lives in. His _closet_ is probably bigger than this. “Yep. Home sweet home.” 

He nods as he continues to look around. There’s a queen-sized bed, which Ransom’s pretty impressed with and happy about. It’s no California King, but he can make do. Some string lights hang on the wall above the bed. Across the bed is the door to the bathroom. A few feet to the right is a little nook that acts as a kitchen, complete with a sink, a small toaster and a microwave. 

“How’d you sleep last night?” he asks, walking over to the desk next to your bed. He sheds his coat and drapes it over the back of your chair. 

“Do you actually care?” 

“No, not really,” he doesn’t look at you when he replies, instead he looks at the things on your desk: textbooks, many of which have to do with speech and teaching; a planner, open to today (he can see his name written with green pen); a half-empty candle and a picture frame flipped down. 

Ransom furrows his brows and picks up the frame, not really knowing what to expect. In the back of his mind, he wondered if it would be a picture of you and a significant other. Ironically, he feels deflated at seeing the actual photo: happy faces, you with your parents and a plethora of people who look similar to you, standing around an elderly woman who he can assume is your grandmother. She’s blowing out candles and has a party hat perched on her head. 

As much as he wishes he had such a relationship with his family, he doesn’t. They’re vile and so is he. 

“Um, that’s just–”

“Right,” he says, propping it up. 

_Why did you put it down?_

His thoughts are interrupted at the sound of someone coming out of their apartment and walking down the hallway. He looks at you and finds your gaze on him, watching him closely.

“I take it there’s a noise issue,” he says, gesturing around the room with his index finger. 

“Yeah. These walls are paper thin.” 

Ransom chuckles inwardly, stepping toward you. “Probably would’ve been better if we had gone to my place.”

“You’re awfully confident,” you say, though Ransom detects where your voice falters and fails you: you’re nervous. 

“Rightfully so, baby,” he remarks casually, stepping towards you.

“Did you just call–?” your question dies as he hooks his hand behind your head, pulling you flush to him. 

He can feel your skin heating up and watches that look flash across your eyes, the same look you had in the hotel room: some blend of nerves and curiosity.

_There you are._

“I did,” he answers your incomplete query. “Take any issue with that?”

“N-No.”

“No, what?” 

He watches your eyes close and you swallow, again paying close attention to the way your throat bobs. 

“No, sir,” you say as you look at him again. 

His eyes dart to different parts of your face before landing on your lips. 

“You ever kiss someone before?” he wonders aloud.

“You kissed me in the hotel room,” you answer as-a-matter-of-factly. 

“Yeah but…” he trails off for a moment, bringing his other hand up to cup your face, thumb running along your lower lip. “Anyone besides me?”

You seem to laugh humorlessly. 

“One boy,” you tell him.

“No one else?” he asks, and you think you hear disbelief in his voice.

“Nobody. Except you.” 

He hums. He tosses the idea around in his head; he likes being the only person that comes to mind when people think of something. He’s the only person who can beat his granddad at Go. He’s the only person who can piss off his granddad’s housekeeper with a single look.

He’s the only man you’ve kissed. He’s the only man you’ve been with. Ever. 

“Ranso–” he interrupts you again, this time with a kiss, a real kiss. Simple and clean, almost innocent. Like one you’d give after a first date with someone. 

More heat crawls up your neck and gathers in your face and you’re motionless, completely stilled in shock at what he’s doing. 

_What is he doing? Why is he like this?_

When he pulls away too soon, you follow him like a magnet, standing on your toes to capture his lips with yours again. 

Ransom smiles. 

There’s no words or coherent thoughts to express how much he wants you. He can’t even understand it himself. But, in getting you to chase his kisses, in drawing you to him…then maybe he can be okay with wanting you.

With a hand flat against his sturdy chest, you push him away just slightly. Your lips part and you’re both a little breathless. 

The fact that he’s so breathless seizes your attention and curiosity. His eyes move downward and he chuckles as his hands fall away from you, stationing at his hips. 

“You might wanna lose the slippers,” he shakes his head, “I can’t take you seriously.” 

Your face goes up in flames and you go to your closet, removing your feet from the slippers. You open the door just enough for the slippers to fit and shove them in along with your other clothes. 

When you shut the door, the lights click off. Your room is illuminated by orange lines from street lamps streaming through your blinds. You turn around to find Ransom walking from the light switch to your bed where he sits down. 

Not enjoying how dark it is even with the light from the street lamps, you go over to your desk and click on your fairy lights, a going away present from a friend back home. Bathed in the dim multi-colored pastel lights, he bids you closer with a finger. You lightly step towards him, stopping just in front of his knees. 

With swift movements, he finesses you to straddle his thighs before his palms settle behind you to cup your ass. He hums in satisfaction at the way you fill his hands and smiles at the way you jump when he squeezes lightly. You steady yourself with hands on his shoulders. 

Doing his best to keep calm, Ransom can hear his thoughts spiraling in his head. He knows with absolute certainty that in any normal circumstance, he would have never given you a second glance. You’re pretty, sure, but you’re so innocent. Not to mention hardworking, willing to rough it by working while being a full-time grad student. From what he gathered from eavesdropping on your conversation at the bookstore, your schedule was packed and you worked with kids. 

Ransom was nowhere near as ambitious as you. He didn’t bother with college, he’s never had a job. He hates his granddad’s dogs, not to mention kids. Little shits are always so annoying. How could you have the patience for them when you’re sandwiched between schoolwork and a job?

He doesn’t know everything about you. But from what he knows about himself, he doesn’t deserve you. 

But hell, if he doesn’t want you anyway.

Leaning up, his lips attach to yours again, sweet at first before he quickly takes charge, his tongue darting out to slot between your lips. He feels your tongue brush against his and groans. His hands drift up your hips and under your shirt. The cool tips of his fingers startle you as they travel up your back. You gasp into his kiss and almost rocket off his lap. As your body moves up, his head tilts back as his mouth chases yours to keep your lips connected. When you settle, fully seated on his thighs, his hands continue their trail upwards. He pulls your shirt over your head and discards it onto the floor. 

His next kiss is short, much to your disappointment, then he trails kisses down the column of your neck. Your hands station themselves in his hair, while his resume their position on your back under the guise of supporting you. As he suckles the pulse point on your neck, you feel the same heat and sparks igniting that you experienced when he had you the first time. 

His lips travel southward, over your decolletage before brushing over the lace edges of your bra. Skillful fingers on your back undid the clasp and the lace fell away from your skin. 

Palms flat and fingers splayed across your back, Ransom holds your chest to his face, pressing flurries of kisses across your breasts. The sensations make you dizzy and your head only spins further when his lips latch onto your left nipple. 

You feel heat pooling in your lower belly and you’re not sure you’re in complete control of your body as your back arches to push your chest more into his mouth. 

The feeling of your skin in his hands and between his lips makes Ransom feel light. It almost reminds him of the things that keep him tied to the Earth, every penny his granddad has given him, the hatred he has for his family, his indifference to his friends…each string is slowly coming loose. When he breathes your scent, the one that makes him picture springtime and flowers, the strings fasten onto you. 

As his tongue continues its dance across your breasts, moving to the other one as one hand comes to your front to pop open your button, he’s acutely aware of the battle raging on in his mind. One voice tells him to leave, get out of here as fast as he can. A second tells him to stay, lose himself in you. 

He doesn’t know how he’ll completely make peace with either side as his hand drops from your back to your bottom. The other moves from between your bodies to hold your thigh to his side when he stands. Your chest shakes as you’re startled, but you settle when he lays you on your back and hovers over you. 

He succumbs to the second voice, lowering himself onto his forearms and closing the distance between your bodies. He kisses you again, groaning at the taste of your lips. 

Feeling his chest flush, he leans away and kneels on the mattress, straddling your legs to give himself space to remove his shirt. He throws you a smirk when he sees your eyes ogling his torso up and down. 

When Ransom returns to you, his mouth goes back to your chest as his hands take care of your pants, undoing the zipper and pushing them as far as they’ll go. You shift your legs to coax the clothing lower. Once they’re around your ankles, you slide your feet out and kick them onto the floor. 

He trails down, lips pressing into your skin and you occasionally feel his tongue dart out between them. When he’s face to face with your core, you hear him exhale loudly, feeling the heat of his breath against the wetness pooling in your underwear. Your legs instinctively move to close, but his broad shoulders keep them open. 

His fingers hook into the waistband and you feel the lacy material peel away from your skin. You flinch at the rush of cool air in the room that descends upon your center. 

Panties discarded, Ransom starts a new string of kisses, up your leg this time. Heat gathers in your face and neck again as you recognize his goal. 

You sit up, retracting your body from him. 

“Wait–” you say, eyes on his perplexed face. 

“What’s the matter?” he asks, kneeling up again, clearly not understanding.

“What–were you–were you going to–?”

“Eat you out?” he supplies, eyebrows shooting up as he relaxes a little, resting his bottom on his ankles. “Yeah, I was.” 

“But, why?” you ask. 

You had heard a fair amount of accounts of sexual encounters from your friends. It didn’t sound like it would feel good to have someone’s mouth down there. 

He chuckles. 

“You want me to make you cum three times, right?” 

“Yeah, but–” 

“It’s supposed to be something that feels _good_ ,” he explains. 

“But what if it doesn’t?” you worry.

“Then I stop and do something else,” he says easily. 

Still, a little uncertain, Ransom reassures you further. 

“Don’t worry, I have _plenty_ of things I can do to make sure you come.” 

Your shoulders heave as you exhale and nod. You slowly scoot yourself down to lay on your back again. 

You feel his hands on your knees, palms warm as they push your legs apart to make room for him. He starts again with kisses, moving up your leg. He stops a few inches before where you’re the wettest. 

“You okay?”

You nod. 

“I need words, baby.” 

“Yes, sir,” you reply shakily. 

He chuckles as he presses his lips to your inner thigh, dangerously close to your center. 

“Just relax, baby,” he husks, eyes landing on your center. 

You’re perfectly pink, just barely glistening in the lights hanging on the wall. Ransom’s mouth waters and he fights the urge to dive right in, restraining himself as he slightly leans upwards and leaves an opened-mouthed kiss over your pubic bone, his hands resting on your thighs now. 

His lips slowly move down and you flinch back slightly. Wrapping his arms around your thighs, he yanks you back down to where his mouth can easily access you. 

He continues to tease around your folds, pressing his lips to your outer folds. He’s so close to the most private part of you and you can’t deny the sparks that run underneath your skin. 

When you feel the very tip of his tongue brush across your folds, you gasp.

“You okay?” he asks.

“It feels weird…” 

“Do you want me to stop?”

You hesitate on giving your answer. He said it was supposed to feel good. While it didn’t _sound_ appealing based on your friend’s accounts, you admit they didn’t go into detail about it. Maybe…

“Gotta tell me,” he says, his patience wearing thin.

“No,” you blurt.

“No…?”

“I mean, keep going,” you say shyly, covering your face with your hands. 

You feel his fingers tuck into the crook of your elbow and he pulls your hand away from your face. 

“Don’t hide.” 

He guides your hand to lay on the sheets and you bring the other down as well. You fist the sheets on instinct, bracing yourself for what’s to come. His hand resumes its position hooked over your thigh and his pinky ring winks at you as it reflects the different colored lights illuminating your room. 

“Relax,” he tells you again, before focusing back on your core. 

Ransom needs to take his own advice. One taste from you and his mind spiraled into a mess of smutty thoughts. It’s a lot to suppress; he thinks he could stay between your legs all day and be happy here. 

He holds in a groan of delight when he delivers another tight lick up the length of you. He wonders if he’s imagining how good you taste, but that thought is dashed when he recalls he was just between another girl’s legs only a few days ago (he was a little too excited to see you again). Her taste wasn’t nearly as good as yours. 

You’re sweet, a clear reflection of your personality, it seems. It reminds him of the candies Harlan used to keep in his study that Ransom would steal whenever he visited. Harlan always told him no more next time, but then he’d turn a blind eye when Ransom snuck another. 

“Fuck,” he mutters at the memory, shaking it from his mind and he refocuses on the task at hand. 

With a few more broad strokes of his tongue, he warms you up and more wetness pools at your entrance. He catches a few drops of his tongue and he can’t help the groan that escapes his throat. 

“What?” you worry again and he wishes you’d stop. 

“Nothin’…taste,” he shakes his head to get it out of the cloudy space it had fallen into, “Taste so fucking–”

He cuts himself off because he can’t bear to keep his mouth away from you any longer. He presses his mouth into you, his tongue giving a few short swipes up your entrance to keep tasting what gathers there. Wet sounds echo throughout the room, making him dizzy. He brings his mouth upwards again, stopping at the top where your lips meet. 

One arm circles your thigh tighter as he brings his thumb and forefinger to spread your folds. Spotting his goal, he brings his lips down onto the little bud. 

You cry out and cover your mouth, your reflexes too late to stifle the sound. If anyone was in the neighboring rooms, they would have heard. You feel Ransom’s lips stretch as he chuckles, the sound a deep rumble that continues to stimulate you. You release a choked sound, turning your head to the side. Your body feels like it’s on fire, it’s tight but relaxed at the same time. You know this feeling, just not this intensely.

It feels… _good_. 

Flicking his tongue across your clit, Ransom doesn’t hold back anymore. He creates a pattern of dipping his tongue into your channel and tasting you there before dragging his tongue back up the length of you to work your bundle of nerves. 

You whimper, pitiful moans escaping your throat as you try to make as little sound as possible. 

“Fuck, Ransom, please,” you implore as quietly as you can, your voice strained as your desire to be quiet for the sake of your neighbors combines with your desire for…

Did you desire _him_? 

Ransom likes the sound of his name on your lips like that, doubling down his efforts, closing his eyes and shaking his head in an attempt to get his mouth deeper into you. 

His tongue stationed at your entrance, he catches everything that gushes forward as you release, head kept in place as your thighs squeeze around his head. Suppressed sounds of pleasure emanate from your lips. His mouth takes in all you have to offer as his eyes open and look towards you. Your hand is cupped over your mouth as you continue trying to keep the noise level down and your grip on the sheets is knuckle-white. Your eyes are shut tight and your chest heaves as you breathe. 

By the time you’ve relaxed and your thighs have released the vice-tight hold on his head, Ransom rises a little. Your eyes open and focus on him. 

The image of him smirking arrogantly as your excitement glistens on his full bottom lip, down his chin and across his cheeks is enough to make more heat gather in your belly. 

“One,” he grins wickedly, settling back down and wrapping his arms around your thighs again. “Take it you liked it?”

You’re sensitive from your first orgasm but you feel an ache for something else, something more. 

“Yes, sir,” you whisper raggedly. 

“Told you, baby,” he replies smugly, maintaining eye contact with you as he teases your lower lips again. 

His mouth continues its overwhelming stimulation of your pussy, more sparks and heat and tension underneath your skin and it’s _so much_. You’re not sure how long you lasted the first time, but you’re certain you won’t last very long this time. 

Ransom knows he’ll need every distracting thought to run through his mind while he’s inside you. Right now, just eating you out, he feels like he could blow just from your taste. Getting his second taste of you, he realizes he was right to beat himself up for not doing this the night you met. How are you so addicting and sweet? 

He unleashes another onslaught of licks and suckles, devouring you and everything you have to offer him. When you blow apart again, he does his best to savor every drop of you that falls upon his tongue. 

“Mm, Ransom,” you gasp, “Please…too much.” 

He does as you bid, but caves into the need for just _one more_ taste. One last lick and he forces himself to take his mouth off you. Kneeling up again, his pants feel uncomfortably tight as he watches your body go slack a little. 

“Two,” he mutters, loud enough for you to hear. You still seem to be recovering and he smirks to himself. “I think you might’ve bitten off more than you could chew when asking to cum three times.” 

“I have…no idea what…what you’re talking about,” you pant out between large gulps of air. 

“I’ve only gotten my mouth on you and you’re wrecked, baby,” he chuckles. 

You manage a chuckle of your own, “Is this…Is this you copping out…on your end of the bargain?” 

Your sharp rebuttal surprises him. You’ve been mousy in bedroom settings, letting him take the led. He supposes your wit never really goes away. 

His hand retrieves a condom from his pants pocket, tossing the foil packet onto the bed. His fingers are quick to undo his belt and the clicking sounds of his buckle catch your attention. He hops off the bed to remove them and his boxers completely, and his erection stands almost as proudly as he does. 

Though, right now, Ransom would not be proud of how much eating you out has turned him on. 

Your smile disappears when he quickly slides the condom onto himself and resumes his position between your legs. His palms lay flat on the sheets near your head, supporting him as he hovers above you. 

Pressing a hard, domineering kiss to your lips, you taste yourself on his mouth and squeak at the sheer force of his mouth on yours. 

“Not even close to copping out, baby,” he rasps, his fingers expertly coming into contact with your pussy. There’s a little moisture from your previous orgasm. Reaching for the apex of your opening, he seeks out your clit again. You jolt at his touch and Ransom simpers at your reactions to him. You bite your lip and your eyes flutter shut at his ministrations. 

Ransom dips his head to kiss you again, softly this time. His tongue brushes over yours, spreading the taste of you into your mouth. You begin to squirm under him and he removes his hand from you to steady himself. When his tip reaches your center, you turn your head away. 

You expect it to hurt and burn just as much as it did last time and brace yourself accordingly. You measure your breathing and he presses forward just slightly. It’s a few slow, shallow thrusts that get deeper and deeper before settling within you completely. 

You feel your walls stretch to accommodate his size. They wrap snugly around him, no pain and the burn is nice. Suddenly, the heat and tension are back. 

_How is it so easy for that feeling to appear?_

Your fingers ache from how tightly you’re grabbing the sheets. You decide to relax your muscles a bit as the area next to your head dips where Ransom presses his palm back into the mattress for support. He retracts his hips before slowly pressing them forward. 

He wishes you would look at him. He wants to see you cum. Sure, he had delivered for the first two orgasms and those seemed powerful, but he couldn’t _see_ you. He didn’t see the way your face twisted up or went lax as you went over the edge. He wanted to know. 

He wants to know you. 

He slowly builds up speed, feeling your walls tight around him and he tries to think of how much he despises his family just so he can hang on. But it’s hard when your smell, your warmth, your taste, makes him remember the crisp air surrounding him as he sat on the patio watching his granddad with his typewriter, the time when his favorite nanny gave him hot cocoa when he was sad, those candies his granddad let him eat that let him know secretly he loved him. He could easily lose himself in those memories where people acted like they cared about him before they knew what a piece of shit he had grown into. 

He could pretend he deserves you. 

One particularly mindless, hard thrust and you cry out suddenly. For a moment, he wonders if he did something wrong, if he hurt you. He registers the look of bliss on your face. Concentrating on his next moves, he aims for that spot again. When he succeeds and your body tightens around him, he smiles satisfactorily. He angles his hips to hit the mark with each following thrust, one hand cupping your face to turn you toward him. 

His gazes hold yours as he continues pressing into you and he gets his wish of watching you as you fall over the edge. Your head tilts back and your eyes shut. Descending upon your lips again, he swallows every cry and whimper that escapes your lips before growling into your mouth as he finishes within you. 

He delivers a few sharp, deliberate thrusts and your body convulses from overstimulation. You whimper when his lips leave yours, but when you open your eyes, his are trained on you. 

You both remain still for a few long moments and you try to decipher what could possibly be going on in his mind. 

The post-sex dazed sensation feels familiar as you rub the sheets between your fingers, though this time there aren’t any downy feathers within your sheets. You blink to break your gaze with him and that seems to snap him out as well. You feel him pull out of you in a slow drip. He sits back on his ankles and you sit up slowly. Your poor posture makes an appearance, your shoulders coming forward as you almost shrink into yourself. 

“Three,” he states simply. 

You hum, amused at his comment as you run a hand through your hair. 

“I won,” he gloats.

“You did,” you sigh, truly feeling neutral about the situation. You don’t feel sad; all things considered, it’s a pretty good position to be in. You don’t feel too happy; you knew what his intentions for you were. 

Grabbing a scrunchie from your bedside table, you tie your hair up and scoot off the bed smoothly, though you have to admit there’s a slight ache in your thighs. 

You open one of the drawers on your bedside table and pull out a clean pair of underwear. You scurry to the bathroom to relieve yourself and put on the new panties then your pajamas, hanging on the hook behind your bathroom door. When you come back to your room, Ransom hadn’t moved an inch. 

In hindsight, Ransom should’ve known getting his hopes up would’ve blown up in his face. Typically after sex, at least with the girls he had previously slept with, they had wanted him to stay and cuddle a little. He was always the one to gather his clothes and leave them cold in their beds. 

Now with the roles reversed, there’s a sinking feeling in his chest. Though, as spiteful as he wants to be, he can’t be mad at you. 

_Wow, he’s gotten soft._

He starts gathering up his clothes and you pad back across the room to your desk. As you flip through your planner, he gets dressed. 

“You said I’d live with you right, if you made me cum three times?”

“Uh, yeah,” Ransom says, pulling his boxers on and then his pants. 

“I have fall break the second week October after my midterms,” he hears you as he buckles his belt. “I won’t have classes or clinicals then. That’d be a good time to move in. For me, at least. Does that work for you?”

_What else would he be doing?_

“I’ll check my schedule,” he lies, trying to sound more occupied than he actually is. Then, a thought occurs to him. “Don’t people go home during fall break?”

“Maybe, but I can’t afford a ticket back. May as well just chill here and move in with you,” you shrug. 

He scowls at that. You had put him in your planner today and now you were arranging for the best time to move in with him. You saw it as nothing more than business. 

“Yeah fine, just text me the dates,” he gripes, pulling his shirt on. 

There’s a tense silence hanging in the air. 

“Do you wanna go to the diner?” you offer. “It’ll be on me. One of the last things I can do while I work there,” you joke. 

“No, I gotta go, I gotta…meet some friends.” 

He slides his feet into his boots and walks over to your desk to snatch his jacket off the chair. He’s startled when your hand grabs his.

“Hey,” you smile bashfully and his chest squeezes. “I…I had fun. Thanks.”

His mind buffers and spirals into a mess of thoughts again. He wants to kiss you, he wants to take you up on your offer on going to the diner.

He _needs_ to get out of here. 

“Can’t get any better than me, baby. Remember that,” he winks. 

You scoff, shaking your head at him as he walks towards your door. 

“Can’t get any worse than me, then,” you supply, your self deprecating joke causing him to stop just when he grabs the knob. 

By his account, you’re the best he’s ever had, virginity and inexperience on your end be damned. 

He turns to look at you, concern cloaking his features. You shrug as if to say it’s harsh but true. 

“Yeah, I guess,” his jab comes weakly. 

As he opens your door, you call out for him to wait. His heart swells with hope until he sees you fiddling with your keys.

“I need to let you out,” you laugh, seeming slightly embarrassed. 

You walk quietly through the hallway and down to the lobby of your building before you reach the gate. You unlock the door and punch in the code for the gate. 

He walks out and turns back to you. You wave sweetly and his heart tugs.

“See you in October,” you say as he walks away, ignoring the ache in his chest that worsens with each step that carries him away from you. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: explicit sexual content/smut, angst, sugar daddy/baby arrangement, cliffhangers, minor spoilers for Knives Out, unprotected sex (use protection, y’all!), irresponsible driving (seriously, signal your turns and obey traffic laws), swearing

Ransom wasted almost no time moving you in. 

When you told him the day of your last midterm (a Wednesday; you didn’t have classes on Thursdays and your Friday professor wanted a jump start on the break), he immediately responded with a confirmation of a U-Haul van set to pick you up an hour after your last exam. 

Clearly, he didn’t understand how studying for exams went because it added an extra heaping of stress onto you. 

But, nonetheless, you scrambled to get on cleaning, packing and selling or giving things away. You turned in your key and barely filled the van with boxes of your belongings. 

As the van drove further and further away from the city and deeper and deeper into the suburbs, a stream of concern flowed through you. 

_How would you get to class?_

The van entered a street at the end of the woods. The houses were large with wide spans of woods in between. Then, it pulled up at the end of the street. 

The house itself stole your breath. 

It was something out of a movie: floor-to-ceiling windows everywhere, a large wrap-around balcony over a brick patio and a lawn with bright green grass. From what you could see, the patio even had a covered lounge with a TV and some couches. In the driveway, you saw a classic silver car, one you recall Ransom driving away in the night he visited you at the diner. Though, it confused you as to why it wasn’t in the garage that you saw near the house. 

After the driver helped you unload the boxes, suitcases and the bag with your bedsheets from the back of the van, it didn’t take long for you and Ransom to butt heads.

He chastised your early dismissal of the driver, telling you the gentleman was supposed to help you with moving in. You insisted you didn’t know (you really didn’t) and that it was okay, anyway, because the boxes were pretty light, save for the ones that held your books. 

The inside of the house was fully furnished with sleek couches and modern touches, but it lacked a home-y feel. It looked as if it was still on the market. There was nothing on the walls, nothing on the shelves that told you anything about Ransom’s personality. 

Though, you supposed actions spoke louder than his words as he actually helped you with your boxes and suitcases. He led you to the second floor where you immediately saw an open office space right off the staircase. It was complete with a spacious L-shaped desk in the far corner, a bookshelf and a couch. Across from the office were three rooms. A fourth, which you assumed was the principal bedroom. You were given the neighboring room from Ransom’s. It was equipped with a queen bed, a large dresser, a vanity space and a closet. The bathroom was shared with the other bedroom, though you weren’t bothered because it was just you and Ransom in the house, after all. 

Moreover, all things considered, you were given a bedroom and the office space. It’s already bigger than your shoebox apartment. Upon realizing this, you stood in the office space with your mouth agape as Ransom gave you a brief tour of what you could use in the office space. 

“…Then, I don’t know, if you need something like a filing cabinet or another bookshelf, we can always get that,” he said before his eyes landed on you and your stunned expression. “If you keep your mouth open like that, I might just have to fill it,” he quipped, to which your jaw snapped shut and your cheeks went up in flames. He chuckles and looks at you rather gently. “I take it you like it?” 

You let out a sound of disbelief, “This is amazing, oh my God.” You gush as you look around the room, fingertips grazing over the dark wood of the bookshelf and the desk. “I never expected any of this.” You’re over the moon excited and you turn back to him, smiling. “Thank you.” 

He made a sweeping motion with his hand as if to say it’s not a big deal. 

“Right, so, there’s some other stuff we need to take care of.” 

He leaves the office, prompting you to chase after him down the stairs. 

“Wait, ‘other stuff’?” you inquire.

“Yeah,” he says plainly, picking up a key on a ring that was resting on the table in the living area. “This is yours, don’t lose it. There’s only one door.” He picks up a small black box next to it, adorned with a red bow. “This is also yours.” 

Undoing the ribbon, you set it on the table and lift the cover of the box. Inside is a key fob with a distinct “T” at the bottom.

“You got me a–!”

“Figured you’d need to get around, I’m far from campus. And I don’t want you driving the Beemer, that’s _mine_. Besides, I wanted to get something I’d drive once you’re moved out.” 

He was quick to justify the purchase, causing you to look up at him. You didn’t need an explanation for how he spent his money, so why was he so quick to give one? 

“Thank you,” you say simply, deciding to drop your curiosity. 

“I wanna take you for a drive in it just so you can get a handle on it before you go to classes again after your break. But let’s go to the kitchen first.” 

You follow him again and your heart soars. There’s plenty of counter space, an island, a stove and–

“There’s _two_ ovens?!” you exclaim excitedly, rushing forward and opening one door, then the next. 

“Um, yeah. But I don’t cook. None of these things have ever been used. Except the microwave and the fridge,” he says, pointing to the other end of the kitchen.

Your eyes follow his finger to settle on the small appliance next to the fridge, splattered with food stains on the front. Next to it is another sort of contraption that almost looks like it belongs in Merlin’s house: glass vessels and water.

You give yourself a pat on the back for pinning Ransom down as a microwave man and selling your old one to your neighbor down the hall. You made a good fifty bucks from it. 

“So, looking around here, do you need anything else?” he asks.

You start opening and closing drawers and cupboards. There’s cutlery and a set of knives, still shiny. Crouching down to look in one of the bigger cupboards, you find a set of pots and pans, still in the box. 

“What’s the story with this?” you ask, looking up at him.

“It was a gift when I first moved in here. Never used it.”

You nod, figuring you can finally put them to use. When you stand up again, you see the unidentified contraption is the fanciest coffee maker you’ve ever seen. It looked like it was never used. 

“Is this new?”

“Yeah, I figured you’d need coffee.” 

You smile at him again and express your gratitude once more. 

“I think I’d just like to have a few baking supplies, Tupperware for storing things and meal prep. Maybe an Instant Pot, too. And…a blender?” 

“Whatever you want,” he says. “C’mon, let’s get in the Tesla.” 

“I have to get my wallet–”

A laugh interrupts you. “I think you’re missing the point of being a sugar baby.”

“Well, if I can afford to buy the things I need, then wouldn’t you want me to do that?”

He seems to think about it for a moment. “Only if I’m not there to pay for anything.”

You huff. Your parents had raised you with the idea that nothing was free, that you earned everything you were given. 

Well, you suppose as a sugar baby, you’d “earn it…” 

“Fine,” you agree, “Just let me get a jacket.”

Once ready, you both trekked down the walkway and to the garage where Ransom told you the combination to open the door. Inside was a shiny, brand new black Tesla. 

Your jaw dropped again.

“You like it?” he asks. 

“I just–I can’t,” you sputter, “I can’t believe it’s mine.” You look up at him as he smirks at you. “Um, at least until I graduate,” you say. 

His smirk falls and you wonder why. “Right, till you graduate.” 

He hands you the key fob and relays a series of instructions, including how to get the door handles to come out, how to lock and unlock the car and even lower all the windows. Once you learn all that, he tells you to get in. 

You treat it like any other car, ducking your head a little forward to get in. But you seem to underestimate the width of the doorway and bump your head on the front of it. 

You hiss and press your palm to your forehead, pausing as you wait for the pain to subside. You hope it doesn’t bruise. 

“What happened?” 

“I leaned too forward and hit my head on the door frame.”

Ransom laughs, a genuine belly laugh that makes him glow a little. You shove his shoulder as if he were a friend, laughing yourself. 

“Shut up and tell me about the car,” you say, shutting the door. 

He looks a little shocked at your gesture and you think you may have overstepped a boundary. “S-Sorry.” 

He doesn’t say anything, he just goes on to tell you how to start the car, shift gears and use the touch screen console where the radio is supposed to be. When he begins driving, the car is so quiet you even wonder if it’s actually operating. 

You poke around the car as he drives, fiddling with the heat and cooling systems, the windows and interior door lock mechanisms. When you reach a more commercial area and you watch Ransom closely, hoping to silently learn how to use the turn signal, you’re disappointed when he doesn’t use it. 

“You didn’t signal your turn.”

“So?” 

“‘So’? So, you’re supposed to do that, it’s the law.” 

“No one actually cares whether or not you signal.”

“Yes, they do!”  
“Why are you getting so worked up about this? It’s a fucking turn signal, the world isn’t ending!” 

“Because people who don’t use their turn signals are assholes!” you exclaim as you pull up to a red light. 

He groans in annoyance, scrubbing a hand down his face. 

“If I had known you’d be so annoying, I wouldn’t have let you–”

“Hold on, ‘ _let me_ ’?” you quote him incredulously as your head whips to glare at him. “I _told_ you first that I didn’t need a sugar daddy. I also didn’t ask for a Tesla that I’d need an instructive course on how to drive. You could’ve gotten me a clunker and I would have still been happy that you got me a car. You insisted on all of this on your own when you made that deal with me back at the diner. Don’t tell me you ‘let me’ do anything.” 

He doesn’t look at you. The light turns green and Ransom drives forward in silence. At the next turn, he teaches you how to use the turn signal. 

* * *

The rest of your break was spent getting used to the house. Ransom pretty much stayed out of your way as you unpacked your belongings and the new kitchen supplies you bought. He took you to the nearest grocery store where you bought some staple foods and ingredients to make food for the week. Ransom had absolutely _nothing_ in his pantry other than chips and other snacks, and his fridge just had beer and takeout boxes. You butt heads again when you asked him for his opinions on the dishes you were making.

“I can just order out.”

“Then what’s the point of me cooking if you’re also not going to eat?”

“You don’t have to cook for me.”

It was a strange mindset to get out of. When you cooked at home, you made enough for yourself and everyone in the house if they wanted some. It’s how you were raised.

Then, when you insisted on getting enough food to cook for the both of you, he grumbled and insisted he wouldn’t want any of your food. 

You found him hovering around the kitchen while you were cooking fajitas later that evening and made a plate for him when you were done. He said they were “alright,” but you smirked to yourself when he went for seconds. 

At further insistence from you, Ransom also paid for two bouquets of flowers. 

“One for the living room and one for the office,” you said, smiling at the blossoms. “It’ll bring some color and fun.” 

He bought you anything you wanted, which, again, you were grateful for. You paid very dearly for everything, however. Every night during your break he led you to his bedroom where he had his fill of you. 

Though, you have to admit: you had your fill of him as well. 

You found him with his head between your legs very often, bringing you over the edge multiple times before he buried himself into you. 

You learned a lot about _yourself_ during those nights, too. You liked it when he went a little rough, you liked the dirty things he growled into your ear as he fucked you. 

One particular night when you had gotten especially hot and bothered, you found you liked being told what to do. 

_Your clothes were scattered across the bedroom, Ransom had you in his lap. It was easy for you to get going with what he was doing with his mouth across your breasts, pulling at your nipple with his lips. A certain swipe of his tongue caused you to gasp out and grind down over his groin._

_“You’re ready, aren’t you?” he looked up at you._

_You were fairly embarrassed that he could tell, though it was actually pretty obvious._

_“You’re so wet, baby,” he teased, pressing a kiss to your neck, over your racing pulse. “Daddy’s not quite there yet.”_

_That was something new. He wanted you to drop the “sir” and start calling him “daddy” the night you first moved in._

_“W-What,” you blinked, your mind cloudy from the heat in the room, “What do you want to do then, daddy?”_

_Another thing you have to admit: you liked calling him that._

_“There’s nothing_ I _want to do,” he said gently, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear. “There is something I want_ you to do.” 

_You looked down between your bodies and let out a shaky breath. You supposed it was going to happen one day…today._

_“Don’t worry, baby. I’ll tell you what to do,” he cooed._

_Shifting around, you moved until you were knelt between his legs instead of straddling him. You kept your hands clasped around his neck and looked into his eyes, waiting for his instructions._

_Instead, he kissed you slowly before pulling away and extending his neck. If you weren’t so nervous, you would’ve laughed because it seems like this could be a weird scene from_ Twilight. 

_Your kisses down his neck were shy and hesitant and your hands moved from his neck to his shoulders. You recalled that you like it when he suckles gently, so you do that. He seemed to hum appreciatively and you felt triumphant._

_He leaned back, supporting himself on his hands behind him. You took it as another instruction: keep moving down._

_You obeyed, kissing across the wide span of his chest. Your hands trailed down until they settled on his abdomen, which seemed to flutter under your touch, but you think you imagined it. You continued down until he was almost fully reclined, now leaning on his elbows to watch you._

_You reached the trail of hair at the bottom of his stomach and left a wet kiss there, your tongue briefly making contact with his skin. You had little to no knowledge of how sensitive guys were down there. Though your friends talked about sex either with you or in front of you, you tuned out for most of it. There were the bits and pieces you remembered, but when they got into it, your mind went somewhere else._

_You looked up at him when his hips lifted from the bed at your kiss. He nodded, letting you know to continue. You wished so badly that your fingers didn’t shake as they lowered the elastic band of his boxers. If you were honest, you had so many discomforting ideas about giving head to a guy and knowing Ransom has had plenty of previous lovers didn’t help you._

_What if you were horrible at it? You probably wouldn’t put it past him to throw you out of a bad blowjob. Dear God, would your old apartment still be available? Would the diner take you back? Maybe–_

_Ransom lifted your chin to make you look up at him._

_“Get out of your head,” he whispered. He genuinely looked so beautiful in the dim glow of his bedroom, soft buttery lights coming from behind the bookcase headboard. “I’ll tell you what to do.”_

_“Okay,” you replied shakily._

_Turning your gaze back down, you shimmied the boxers down as far as they would go. He was right, he wasn’t completely there yet. With enough finesse, you could get him all the way there._

_You really had no idea what to do. Ransom’s moves on you were calculated; he built up heat and tension within you with such precision that you felt like you were floating every time, even if he ate you out at least once a day. If you could achieve that with him, that would certainly feel like an accomplishment._

_“Use your hands first, baby.”_

_You’re_ really _scared; your hands continued to shake as your fingertips just brushed over the skin of his member. You wrapped your fingers around the base of him loosely and he seemed pretty satisfied._

_“Little tighter, baby.”_

_You did as he said and he hummed happily. You tested out different grips on him and found he seemed to respond the most when your grip was a bit tighter._

_With that knowledge, you moved your hand up, loosening it as you went and tightening slightly at the tip._

_You teased him for long moments like that, changing your grip randomly with each pass over him._

_“Fuck, baby,” he gritted out, “You done this before?”_

_You shook your head at him._

_“Fuck,” he groaned again, sounding pained, “Fuck, put your mouth on me now.”_

_You shifted your body again so you could bend over him. Holding him steady for you, you took just the tip into your mouth._

_You felt that same dizzying sensation, like when he has you in his lap, only more intensely. You shut your eyes and tried to breathe through it, keeping your focus on the task at hand._

_You mostly relied on what you liked from him going down on you (and some things you learned in your human anatomy class) to guide you through your experimentation on him when he wasn’t instructing you. You pulled your mouth off him and ran your tongue over the head of him. You focused on short, quick strokes with your tongue and shallow sucks over the head of him._

_“Keep your mouth on me,” he eventually said, though it sounded a little more like a demand._

_You obeyed, closing your lips over him and keeping him there. You weren’t sure how you felt about his taste, especially because he said you tasted good._

_“Lower, baby. Go lower for daddy,” he coaxed, a hand at the back of your head, but not pushing._

_You felt more moisture gathering between your legs at the sound of him calling himself “daddy.” You closed your eyes again to regain your focus and keep your mind afloat in a sea of smutty thoughts._

_You relaxed as much as you could, though you admit it was hard to do. You were studying speech pathology, and right now, the extensive knowledge of the mouth and throat was_ not _helping you._

_You kept trying to just immerse yourself in what was happening, but it became too much and you pulled away, coughing and thoroughly embarrassed._

_“God, I’m sorry,” you moaned, feeling humiliated as your hand came to cover your face._

_“Stop, Jesus, don’t fucking cry,” he said, sounding like an annoyed parent whose child was throwing a tantrum. He moved your wrists to reveal your face to him. You weren’t crying, thankfully, though you absolutely could have been. “Hey.” He gripped your chin between his thumb and forefinger. “I told you to get out of your head, right?” he reminded you._

_“Yes.”_

_“So why’d you get in there?”_

_“I don’t know,” you whined, feeling more and more frustrated with yourself. Your head turned away and his grip on your chin fell away._

_“What you’ve done up until that part was really good,” you heard._

_“What?” You looked back at him again, though he’s not looking at you. He’s looking at his sheets._

_“Yeah, it was good,” he continued, picking at a loose thread._

_“Don’t say that just to say it.”_

_“Do I look like the kinda guy who says things just to say them?” he asked, looking at you again._

_“In some cases, yes,” you answered, “Especially in order to get what you want.”_

_He chuckled. “You’re a smart one, baby.”_

_“I_ am _getting my master’s,” you reminded him._

_Another chuckle and he smiled at you, which you returned briefly._

_“Wanna try again?”_

_You felt uncertain, still nervous._

_“It’ll be slow. But you can say no.”_

_You look at him. You always knew consent was important in sexual situations, but Ransom reminding you that you have a hand in how the rest of the night goes made you feel very content in the situation._

_“One more try,” you said._

_“Why?” he taunted, “You like it?”_

_You didn’t answer, settling back into the position you were previously in. Before you got anywhere near touching him, he gripped your chin again. “Daddy asked you a question, baby.”_

_You swallowed._

_“You liked it, didn’t you, baby?”_

_You still said nothing._

_“Gotta tell me, baby, or you won’t get to touch daddy anymore. Did you like it?”_

_“Yes, daddy.”_

_“‘Yes, daddy,’ what?”_

_“Yes, daddy, I liked it.”_

_“That’s a good girl,” he smiled, giving you a short kiss. His hand left your face and he leaned back again, waiting for you to get started._

_You repeated the same motions of gripping him, your fingers tightening around him every so often until he was groaning beneath you._

_“Go on, baby,” he nodded to you._

_You breathed slowly and steeled your nerves, bending down to wrap your lips around the head of him._

_“Take your time,” he panted._

_You worked him into your mouth at your own pace, sinking down and pulling up, taking deeper each time._

_“Fuck, that’s good, baby,” he gritted out._

_You wondered if Ransom ever looked up at you when he went down on you. You never looked at him, keeping your focus on the ceiling. Ransom’s ragged voice made you curious, especially because you didn’t feel his body move under you. You moved your gaze up, finding his eyes trained on you._

_“Shit,” he swore, moving his weight onto one elbow as his left hand came to cup your jaw. His thumb brushed over your cheek, making your eyes flutter shut. You tried again to take him a little further. His next swear was elongated, “That’s a good girl. So good for daddy.”_

_When you took him as far as you could, you breathed through it as you brought your hand back to wrap around the base of him._

_He groaned again and you felt a short spurt of liquid in your mouth. You slowly withdrew, before giving him a slow, broad lick over the head of him and swallowing what you tasted there._

_You ducked down to take him again, but his hand moved from your jaw to the back of your neck, bringing you to him. He kissed you firmly, and his other hand came to cup underneath your thigh. He moved you to lay on your back and ripped your panties away. You cringed at the sound of the elastic snapping, but you didn’t have much time to dwell on it. His fingers made contact with your dripping folds and he smirked._

_“You_ really _liked that, didn’t you, baby?”_

_“Yes, daddy.”_

_“Don’t worry, baby, you’ll get more chances to suck daddy’s cock,” he promised as he leaned over you to reach the bedside table and pull out a condom. His hand left you, causing you to whine at the loss of contact. He smirked at that as he rolled the condom onto himself, then he leaned over you, his face level with yours._

_“You’re needy tonight, aren’t you, baby?” he asked, his fingers just lightly brushing over your folds, “Hm? Got so wet so quickly and now you’re practically dripping after having my cock in your mouth.” He inserts one finger into you, making you cry out. “Seems like you can cum just from my finger.”_

_You didn’t know what came over you, what made you shake your head violently as you whined again because you wanted more._

_“No?” he teased, twisting his finger around within you. “What do you want, baby?” he prompted you._

_“Want your cock, daddy,” you pleaded automatically._

_“Such a good baby for me,” he smiled, withdrawing his finger. You felt the head of him press into your entrance and reveled in the feeling of him being buried inside you._

_Your hands found purchase on his shoulders and there was a part of you that wanted to wrap them around his neck and bring him closer to you. You craved the calming, woodsy smell of him, the visual of a forest at night, the stars visible to the naked eye. The moments where you were perfectly content in your place in the universe…_

_But you were just a sugar baby. You didn’t mean anything to him._

_Your thoughts jumbled as he thrust into you and the feeling of him filling you sent a wave of pleasure through you. Ransom was right: you liked having him in your mouth, you liked the way he guided you and told you what to do. You were so close to the edge because of it._

_The sensations were dizzying and you spiraled all the way over the edge. You felt your back arch through your orgasm and warm puffs of air against your neck. Your hands reached for the short strands behind his neck, holding him to you as he delivered a few more hard thrusts and worked himself through his own orgasm._

_You felt the heat leave your neck and a forehead pressed to yours. When you opened your eyes, his blue ones were right there. His eyes closed again and he pressed his lips to yours one, two, three times before he pulled away. You were stiff under him, surprised by the affection he had given you._

_You figured he was just caught up in the moment._

_He pulled out and fell onto the mattress next to you. Your arms relaxed and you ran your fingers through your hair as you tried to even out your breathing. After a few moments, you sat up and scooted off the bed, beginning to gather your clothes._

That night stands out among the rest in the month that you’ve been living with him. 

You uncovered dangerous feelings about him, ones that you had to constantly remind yourself weren’t good, but you still liked. 

You were content with where you were, who you were with. The uncertainties of life didn’t matter when you were beneath him or when you kissed him. It didn’t matter that maybe your clients could possibly have a hard day tomorrow, or that a caregiving relative could yell at you. It didn’t matter if you failed the Praxis (fuck, you still had to study). It didn’t matter that maybe you wouldn’t get a job straight out of grad school. Everything that stressed you out normally: your exams, your reports, your clinicals, your seminars, your projects, your thesis, your professors…none of that seemed to matter when you were lost in him the way you wander around the redwoods forests back at home, going off the beaten paths and marveling at the beauty around you. Or, in the cases of being with Ransom, above you. Sky blue eyes, dark locks like the soil after it rains and caresses that chilled you like an afternoon breeze on a hike. 

Everything else was irrelevant. It just mattered that you were with him. 

You stare at him as he stands on the balcony within your line of vision, leaned over the railing, looking out to the yellow, orange and red leaves on the trees. Your heart sighs and sinks as you know those feelings can’t grow further. They need to be cut away, kept in check. You can’t ask yourself “What if…?” or say “Maybe…” to yourself. 

His words in the diner were clear. 

_“You keep me entertained.”_

And you would. Until you graduated. Nothing more.

* * *

After a month of living with you, Ransom figures he’ll never understand your habits. You cook for him, which is nice, even though you don’t need to. You buy useless flowers that die in a week even though they come with that silly packet of vitamin powder or whatever the hell it is that’s supposed to keep them alive. You ask him for pillows upon pillows to decorate the couches in your office, the living room and the patio lounge. It wasn’t like they were even comfortable to sleep on, they were stuffed too much and had a firmer yield. Some of them even had weird embroidered designs which made them all the more uncomfortable. 

He’ll never understand why you leave after you two have sex. 

You were always quick to get up and gather your clothes. You were so detached from him and he couldn’t understand. He buys you whatever you want, no matter how stupid it is. 

As he watches you study as you pace around the kitchen while something cooks, you almost remind him of his mother. Severe, gazing intensely at the document for her company. 

You’re different though, bundled in your university sweater, flannel pajama pants, those silly “hellafump” slippers (or whatever they were) and glasses perched and sometimes sliding down your nose. When you correctly recite something from your notebook, you smile to yourself. 

He likes you better. 

You had a habit of using a lot of different places in the house for your work. Most times he found you in the office space, but sometimes he found you at the dining table, documents spread out all over the surface. Other times you sat in the patio lounge, your laptop perched on a pillow in your lap as another one was propped behind your neck. He especially found you there when it rained or snowed. When you had flashcards or recited information to yourself over and over again, you were in the living room with some cartoon playing on the TV. It was always different every time, and sometimes Ransom can see a scene and remember watching it in preschool or kindergarten, but he never knows the story. 

Sometimes if he’s really quiet, he can spy on you from the staircase, singing and dancing along to the movie. You’re not good at either, but he likes watching you nonetheless.

You were full of surprises too. 

You weren’t afraid to scold him. It wasn’t limited to turn signals or stop signs.

_“Stop, stop, stop!”_

_“What?!” he asks, the car fully braked._

_You didn’t respond to him, just looked around. “Okay, you can go now.”_

_When he turns to look at you, he catches a red octagon in his periphery._

_“I was slowing down,” he explains, pulling ahead._

_“Slowing down isn’t stopping.”_

When he asked you why you got so riled up over a stop sign, you mentioned you needed to be on the safe side.

_“You don’t know if someone else is gonna run the stop sign and crash into you.”_

_“I guess not, but it’s just a car.”_

_“An_ expensive _one.”_

When he was less than gentle with the coffee carafe, your cautious disposition made much more sense. 

_“It’s fine, I can just buy another one if it breaks,” he said nonchalantly._

_“Ransom, I get that, you but you still paid_ money _for it! You should be more careful with how you handle it.”_

He took note of how careful you were with things. You never slammed the oven door or threw cutlery into the sink. You never left the tap running unless you needed to fill a pot of water for making pasta. You never left lights on, especially if you didn’t need to. When you could, you turned off the main light of the office and just used your desk lamp. 

He often forgets that not everyone has what he has. But, living with you, seeing you everyday, he’s reminded of it. You work hard. You always work. You study and write and recite because you want to be a speech pathologist and he looked it up–it pays fairly well in Massachusetts or other states in the East Coast.

What does Ransom want to do with his life? No doubt you inherited your work ethic from your parents, who he can assume also taught you to take care of the things around you. His parents taught him money was the most important thing in his life…but they never taught him how to get it or what really to do with it. He just gets it and spends it. 

Ransom has holes in his nice sweaters. His shirts and trousers have stains on them and all his shoes are falling apart. He’s never had to look presentable because he’s never had a job. Sometimes he sees you when you’re off to do clinicals. Your shirts are clean and crisp, not a stray thread or blemish in sight. Even when you don’t have clinicals, if you just have class, your graphic t-shirts still don’t have any unwelcome marks or holes. You always take off your shoes by the door and carry them to your room. You wear slippers around the house and do laundry every week. 

Your bookshelf wasn’t even completely filled with _books_ , but rather the empty spaces had pictures or little trinkets you had brought from home that he didn’t see in your apartment and others you bought recently. The other day you asked him to get you a little ceramic llama because it reminded you of your friend, and of course, he said yes. It made a home on your bookshelf. The framed picture of you and your extended family at your grandmother’s birthday party was on your desk again. Sometimes, if he caught you at the right time, you would pause, look at the picture and smile. 

You called your parents every week. Sometimes you cried, especially when saying goodbye. 

He’ll never understand the urge he gets to wipe away your tears when you do cry.

One day you really caught him off guard when he had teased you before an online lecture.

_“Ransom, stop, I have class in a few minutes. Can’t this wait?” you argued, pressed between his body and the counter as you finished assembling your breakfast._

_“Don’t think so, baby,” he husked in your ear, nose nudging into your hair as he pressed his growing hard on into your ass. “Your fault for wearing these shorts, turning daddy on.”_

_He nearly had you, then. You almost melted in his arms. An annoying chime sounded from your laptop at the breakfast table and you quickly ducked out from his grasp to check in with your professor. He leaned against the counter, miffed at you and your class._

_He retreated back to his room and watched TV, keeping the volume low so he could hear when you were done with class._

_He settled on some game show, though he had to change it because the people on it were idiots. Flipping through again, he found a sitcom and watched that instead._

_Time ticked on slowly and he heard the professor drone on and you asked questions. After an hour and a half, he heard you puttering around the kitchen._

_He leapt out of bed and tried to contain himself as he came down the stairs. He was on you again as you chewed on a cracker._

_“Class done?” he asks, repeating his same movements from earlier in the morning._

_“No, Ransom, it’s only our break. I end at noon.”_

Jesus, _he thought_ , are they always like this? 

_Ransom knew then that he would hate college._

_“How much time do you have?” he asked, a hand disappearing into your shorts._

_“Ten minutes,” you answered. You bit your lip when his fingers brushed over your clit._

_“That’s plenty of time for daddy, baby.”_

_He pressed harder and you leaned into him. He stayed like that for a while, stimulating your bundle of nerves with his fingers, sometimes pinching it between two fingers. When he moved his fingers to dip into your entrance, your head fell back against his shoulder. He pressed kisses along your face before taking your mouth hungrily, his tongue coming in to play with yours._

_He pulled his hand away and gripped your hips to turn you around before lifting you up. You wrapped your ankles around his waist and he carried you into the living room. He clumsily sat down, pulling down your shorts and panties. You removed them swiftly, back on him quickly._

_Then, out of nowhere, you pushed him onto his back. His hand reached between your legs and resumed its tease on your clit as you nudged his pants lower and pulled him out._

_You gave a few tugs, changing your grip the way he liked before he told you to get on him._

_You stationed your hands on his chest as he held himself steady for you to sink down on. Once you did, you stilled and gasped. On his end, he was trying to keep it together long enough for you to finish before your break ended._

_“Fuck, c’mon, baby,” he gritted out, landing a solid spank on your ass. “Can’t have more than five minutes left.”_

_With that, you slowly lifted yourself off him then lowered again, getting used to the motion before picking up the pace. It wasn’t long until you were moving quickly, grinding yourself forcefully as your clit made contact with his pubic bone and you found how to angle yourself so he could hit that spot within you each time._

_Shocked as he was–he never expected to have you riding him within two weeks of moving in–he was turned on as all hell._

_“That’s it,” he said, “Get what you need from me. C’mon, baby.”_

_Your movements began faltering, he assumed as your legs got tired and you started worrying about class._

_He wasn’t going to let you get away this time._

_His hands gripped your waist and he began to jut his hips upwards while pulling you down onto him. It seemed to work like a charm as you cried out, so close to the edge. He watched your face closely as he pressed a hand flat across your lower stomach, reaching his thumb down to stroke your clit again._

_He got what he wanted and watched you bite your lip before you gasped out and your walls clamped tightly around him. He pulled you off him just as he finished, wrapping a hand around himself to ride out his end._

_You stayed leaned above him for a few moments, eyes shut as you tried to catch your breath. He began to reach up for you, just so maybe he could pull you in for a kiss, but–_

_“And welcome back! Okay, let’s dive back into where we left off…”_

_You swore and sprang up from him, gathering your clothes on the floor as you scrambled back to the table._

The oven beeps, breaking him out of his reverie as you check on the food. As mushy as he’s gotten, he still likes the way you bend over to look into the oven. You take out a tray of food and a spicy scent fills the lower floor of the house. 

You fan the food with your oven mitt and grab a fork and knife to cut open one of the pieces of chicken on the tray. You then turn off the oven and he watches as you shuffle around to grab some Tupperware containers to store your food in for the week. 

When you split the containers into two stacks of five, he already knows one stack is for him. 

You cook for him. You’ve _been_ cooking for him. Maybe that’s something? Maybe that’s your way of saying you care about him? 

Or you were just being a considerate housemate when you weren’t in sugar baby mode. 

Shaking his head, he turns his attention back to the TV as he hears you clean up. Still, he wonders what he can do besides buy you things in order to draw you closer to him, urge you to sit with him in front of the fireplace, make you stay in his bed longer?


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: loss of virginity, explicit sexual content/smut, angst, sugar daddy/baby arrangement, cliffhangers, minor spoilers for Knives Out, unprotected sex, swearing, Ransom is an asshole (more to add and if you spot any that I’ve missed, please kindly let me know!)
> 
> This chapter assumes the Thrombeys celebrate Christmas.

As soon as your finals for the semester finished, you were on a plane to spend the winter holidays with your family and catch up with some friends. Ransom arranged for a car to drop you off to the airport and pick you up when you came back in the New Year. 

He remembers the way you looked when you left: leggings and clunky Ugg boots, knitted sweater, puffy jacket, a thick knitted scarf, and a beanie nestled on your head. Snow was falling gently, creating a white blanket on the front lawn. The flakes caught on your lashes and some individual strands of your hair. 

You looked adorable. 

He happily paid for first-class so that you wouldn’t have to deal with annoying fees for your luggage. He helped you with them down the walkway and the driver took it from there. 

“Well, Merry Christmas, Ransom,” you turned and smiled at him once the luggage was in the trunk.

“Um, yeah, Merry Christmas,” he replied awkwardly. There was a heavy pause where neither of you knew what to say next.

“Miss? We should get going so you have time to get through security.”

“Right, sorry,” you apologized before quickly facing Ransom again. “I’ll see you next year.” 

You leaned up and quickly brushed your lips against his. It wasn’t much of a kiss, it was barely even a peck. But it was enough to make him freeze and feel heat rushing to his face. His eyes were glued to your face as you looked at him, waiting for a reaction. He didn’t do anything. 

He remained still as you got into the car. You waved through the window as it pulled away and he stiffly waved back. 

“…Bye.” 

A harsh wind blew and Ransom retreated, though, without you, the house wasn’t that much warmer than outside. 

You would be gone for four weeks. Next week was Christmas, the following week was New Year’s. 

If he’s honest, he already can’t wait for you to come back. 

But it’s not because he likes you!!! No. Absolutely not. Ransom? Having _feelings_ for someone? Ridiculous. Out of the question. 

He couldn’t wait because he was going to have two holidays to spend with his family and he knew they weren’t going to go well. He was lucky you were there for his granddad’s birthday and you came back shortly after Thanksgiving. But he would have two whole weeks where he wouldn’t be able to get lost in you and forget about his stupid family before you came back.

But that didn’t matter, he doesn’t need you! He has plenty of girls he can call. Plenty of girls that would be happy to have him in their beds. That would be fine. That’ll help him. 

Going into the kitchen, he opens the fridge to retrieve a beer. It’s still covered with pieces of paper from your school, a calendar with dates slashed through and sticky notes with miscellaneous scribbles on them. He finds plenty of containers filled with food and his eyebrows furrow. It’s not like you to leave food or let it go to waste if you can help it. When he shuts the door, he looks closer and finds a piece of paper with your handwriting on it addressed to him.

_I made fajitas! They should last you the next week. There’s also Ziplocs and trays of seasoned chicken and veggies, lasagna, and a casserole in the freezer! I taped instructions on how to prepare them. If you decide to eat them, I hope you like them. Let me know which ones you liked and I’ll make them again! If not, thanks for saving me some cooking :) Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!_

You signed it with a heart and your name. His heart tugged as he opened the freezer to find what you had said was indeed there, complete with instructions on how to cook them. 

Back in September, he was certain nobody cared about him. 

Now, as he takes out a container of fajitas from the fridge to heat up in the microwave, he knows one person does. 

—

Christmas seemed relatively tame. There was a brunch at Harlan’s. There was small talk, but not much targeted at him other than asking him how he’s been. 

Truth is, since he’s met you, he’s been better than he’d ever been before. But he’d never tell his family about you. So he lies. Says he’s been normal, not up to much. 

“As usual,” Walt digs at him, earning a snap from his older sister. But she doesn’t say anything to defend her son. 

It was the usual family members in attendance, with the exception of Joni’s new boyfriend that she had been dating since…well, Ransom didn’t really care to listen to details. 

The party dies down shortly after one and it’s about the time when people can duck out until what’s-his-name asks when they’ll open presents. 

Linda is quick to shut down the prospect of presents. It wasn’t a Thrombey tradition. Ransom doesn’t even remember the last time he opened a gift with bows and wrapping paper. 

What’s-his-name then proceeds to ask if he may break tradition, which no one opposes. He gets down on one knee, takes Joni’s hands in his, and makes a bunch of sappy proclamations before pulling out a ring box and revealing a rather large engagement ring. 

Now it makes sense why Joni’s with him. 

Joni tearfully accepts as they receive scattered applause from everyone. 

Linda, however, is not pleased with the display. She completely explodes at how this is a _family_ holiday and now Joni, who’s a Thrombey through marriage and now widowed, has gone and made it about herself. 

“…And to _insult_ Neil by accepting a proposal in our father’s house…!”

Ransom watched as his father tried to appease his mother, though it didn’t work much. 

Truthfully, Ransom actually thought his mother’s outburst was unnecessary. Then again, he remembered so little of his Uncle Neil. When more insults were thrown and feelings got riled up, Ransom decided to take his leave. 

That night, he ate more fajitas by himself in front of the fireplace and watched TV. His phone buzzed with a message from you. 

> **_Hey! Merry Christmas, Ransom! I hope you’re enjoying your holiday!_ **

His heart tugs again at the idea that you thought of him while you were probably having fun with your family. It sinks when he looks around his empty house. 

> _Thanks. Hope you’re having fun._
> 
> * * *

On New Year’s Eve, Ransom couldn’t stay out of the drama. 

He got into it with Walt.

“Dad, Dad, _please_! It’s a new year, there’s going to be plenty of opportunities!” The youngest had cornered his father, bending down to talk business in a hushed manner. Though with the whiskey in his veins, the conversation was anything but quiet. 

“Walt, we’ve talked about this–”

“But you’re not listening!” he whined, “If you take the Netflix deal, it can open up your work to a larger audience!” 

Ransom walked out of the bathroom and heard the grousing echo in the narrow hallway. He chuckled to himself, emerging from there.

“Just ask Jacob, he’s always on Netflix!” 

“That little Nazi doesn’t look up from his _phone_ , you think he watches _Netflix_?” Ransom scoffed as he passed by on his way to the hors d’oeuvres. 

“Ransom,” his granddad said, but it wasn’t a snappy tone. If anything, it sounded like he wanted him to be part of the conversation. 

Looking back, the young man catches his granddad’s gesture to come closer and Walt’s daggering glare. 

Knowing this can’t end well, he walks over to the two older men. 

“Ransom, you were my research assistant for a while,” Harlan reminds him. 

“Yeah.” 

“What do you think I should do to appeal to a wider audience?” 

It’s not often that Ransom is caught off guard at a party. You’ve surprised him enough, sure. But by his _own family_? That’s not normal. As flummoxed as he is, he can’t pass up the opportunity to dig into Walt. He knows exactly what to say. 

“You could appeal to a female audience.” 

“What?” Walt squawks.

“Explain,” his granddad says, fully turning to look at him, hand propped under his chin thoughtfully.

“Well, women are the biggest consumers of crime media, like TV shows, podcasts, and books.” 

“Interesting,” Harlan nodded thoughtfully, looking to the ceiling. 

“How do you know this?” Walt inquired as he looked at Ransom through narrowed eyes. 

“I have a friend,” Ransom explained. “She told me.” 

“Oh, a ‘ _friend_.’ And how does _she_ know?” Walt says, his tone resembling the one you’d use to ask a child about some make-believe game they’re playing. 

“She and some other friends are in a group where they just watch, listen, and read all that stuff. They’re big fans of granddad’s.” 

“Oh,” Harlan smiled bashfully, “That’s so lovely. Do you know how many of them there are?”

“Maybe about six or seven of them?” 

“I see. Well, I’ll have seven copies of my latest delivered to you next week, with handwritten notes from me. Now, to appeal to a female audience, what do you think that entails?” 

Ransom had successfully lassoed Harlan away from Walt, causing him to grumble as he walked away. 

Though later, as Ransom left before midnight, Walt was outside smoking his cigar.

“You’re a real piece of shit, you know that?” 

“Sorry, uncle, I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Ransom said as he paused to put on his jacket. 

“Yes, you do,” the older man gritted out, “Talking to dad about that bullshit about women? You’re such a little creep! Writing and publishing is _my thing_ with dad and then, when Jacob is old enough, it’ll be _his_. You are not going to get in our way!” 

“Harlan asked me for my opinion and I gave it. It’s not my fault he liked my idea better.” 

Walt scoffed. 

“Yeah. And when Harlan’s new book fails because you fed him the wrong idea, I’m sure he’ll continue giving you the money you live so comfortably with. The negative reviews and drop in sales will make him remember what a worthless piece of shit you are. You don’t know anything about what’s good for the company or the family. You just care about yourself…” 

As Walt spews his sarcastic and poisonous reminders, Ransom watches. He wanted to fight. He wanted to say no, he knew what he was talking about because the smartest person he knows is in that group. She’s the one who told him about the statistics. 

She deserves to be heard by the author she adores so much. 

Instead, Ransom smiles. 

“Happy New Year, Walt.” 

Ransom goes home and passes his neighbors’ houses swarming with cars and people, lit up as they all celebrate. He drinks a beer and eats a piece of the lasagna you made while the fireplace roars and the ball drops on TV. 

Another text from you.

> **_Happy New Year!!!_ **

You’ve sent a lot of celebratory emojis and he smiles a little. 

> _Happy New Year_

* * *

The next week, Harlan’s promised box of books arrives. There are ten copies and Ransom opens the front cover of one to read the note. 

**_To the women who will inspire my next novels. Many thanks.  
_ ** **_\- Harlan Thrombey._ **

Ransom finds himself excited for you to see this, but he misses you. He shakes his head and puts the book down, closing the flaps of the box again. 

He’d been a mess the past few weeks without you, the battle still raging on in his head. He’d been fighting to be the way he’s been when you’re around, eating, watching TV and paying attention… _happy_. 

His encounter with Walt on New Year’s Eve reminded him of all the vile things he truly was, the shortcomings and flaws he had as a son, a grandson and a person. He had forgotten it all since you moved in. Everything Walt had said about him was true. He knows nothing. He isn’t good for anything, no matter how much he liked the way things were when you were around.

You weren’t even permanent. The first semester of your graduate studies was over and there were four semesters left. He would have you in his house at his disposal for another year and a half and that was it. 

What will he do when you’re gone? 

He’ll go back to the way he was before, he supposes. 

You aren’t here now. May as well do as he’s done. He’s already been drinking regularly and staying in his house all the time. The only difference compared to before was now he had homemade food to eat. 

The last remaining habit from before: getting laid regularly. 

He meets her at her apartment, turning on that arrogant side of him that you hate and correct him on, but other women love to hate. 

He kisses her with teeth and tongue, she bites his lip and it turns him on. She gets on her knees, takes him all the way in her mouth and it’s the sexiest thing he had seen in a while. 

He buries himself deep in her and fucks her hard as she screams and moans. He pulls out and turns her over roughly so she’s laying on her front. He props her on her knees so her ass is in the air and thrusts into her again. A tight grip on her hips, she claws at the sheets and presses her face into the covers. He leans over her to hide his face in her neck. As he breathes in, he smells berries and something sweet and summery. 

It’s nice, but it’s not you. 

He growls at himself for thinking of you, how soft you are, and how you remind him of sunshine. He pushes away memories of you and his hips move faster until he’s spilling inside of her. 

Her moans are obnoxious and loud, not like yours that always sound quietly surprised, like you didn’t know you could feel that way. 

He rides himself out and pulls out and away from her. She’s still in that position as he dresses. 

“Hey, what are you doing?” she complains, turning around, “I didn’t cum.” 

“Doesn’t really seem like my problem,” he shrugs. Truthfully, he didn’t care. 

“Ugh, asshole!” she shouts, “Get out!” 

“Already leaving.” 

He gets out of her building and sits in the driver’s seat of his car, forehead pressed to the steering wheel. 

_You’ve ruined other women for him._

Slamming his hands against the steering wheel, his head hurts from the thoughts that race through his mind. _His mom on Christmas. You. Harlan’s pride. You. Walt’s tirade. You. How excited you’d be when you saw Harlan’s book. Your scent. Your cooking. You._

He starts the car and drives home. He drinks himself to sleep. 

—

You arrived late at night the next week, the moon illuminating the front lawn of the house. You felt refreshed from relaxing all vacation, but groggy from the flight. 

This time you accepted the driver’s help to carry your luggage to the front door and still tipped him generously. 

“Be careful on your way back! Don’t slip!”

“Of course, miss!”

You smiled and shivered as you unlocked the door. You tried to be quiet; you didn’t know what time Ransom usually slept. Once you were done for the night, he never expressed any desire for you to stay. So you left and went back to studying into the early hours of the morning. For all your know, since you weren’t here for the past couple weeks and the lights in the house were off, he could’ve been asleep by now. 

You managed to carry your luggage up the stairs. You flopped onto your bed with a sigh, happy to be home. The flight was long and the drive felt like an eternity. Removing your beanie, you threw it into your laundry basket. You shed your winter coat and began retrieving some essentials for the night, deciding to fully unpack tomorrow. 

As you knelt in front of your suitcase, you heard a knock. 

You turned to find a shirtless Ransom there, looking exhausted and…

“Ransom? Are you drunk?” His face and neck were flushed and his eyelids looked heavy. 

“Had a couple beers,” he says, sauntering into your room and tugging on the sleeve of your sweater. You already know what he wants from you.

“Ransom, I don’t know if this is a good idea.” 

“Why not, I’m fine,” he argues childishly, pulling your sleeve harder.

“Don’t-don’t do that,” you say, your hand over to slowly peel it off. His hand swallows yours. 

“Please,” he whines this time.

“You’re upset. Why are you upset?”

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” he says, his hands traveling to the hem of your sweater to pull it up. Your hands grasp his to still them. 

You know this situation very well; you’ve experienced it enough in clinicals. When someone wants something enough, you can make a deal. You did it with Ransom before. Maybe it’ll work again. 

“If…Okay,” you decide, “I don’t want you to fuck me tonight.”

“What about my mouth?” he’s quick to suggest.

“If I let you use your mouth, will you talk to me?”

“Yes,” he answers quickly. 

“Okay.” 

You keep one hand in his, leading him to his bedroom. He turned off the main lights and switched on the ones behind his headboard. 

You turn back to him and do away with your sweater, feeling his hands trail up as the heavy material leaves your skin. His lips immediately land on your chest over your collarbones. Your sweater falls with a thud on the floor and heat spreads underneath your skin. 

Your bra is gone faster than you can comprehend the movement and he pushes you onto the bed, laying you down so the headboard is on your right and the foot of the bed is on your left. You land less than gracefully on top of the sheets and his hands are working on taking off your leggings and your underwear. 

By now, you know what it feels like to be turned on. Ransom typically took his time with you, making sure you were absolutely ready before doing anything. You wonder if the alcohol had anything to do with how much he was rushing. 

His fingertips are warm against your folds as they graze over you there and you gasp at the stimulation. Nobody else had touched you in the weeks that you were gone, and even then, you didn’t have a lot of alone time over the break. 

“Yes,” he whispers and you barely make out the word. You’re confused, but don’t have time to dwell on it as he kneels over you to kiss you. His hand that was moving over your center moves up to play with one of your breasts as the other comes up to hold your face. 

You kiss him back gently, nervously. Your lips are slightly chapped from the flight and the cold, but he doesn’t care. 

He’s pulling out all the stops for this, making you dizzy with his kisses as he pinches your nipple. His hands switch and he begins paying attention to the other breast. 

His mouth begins to move down, over your neck. He pauses to give some quick, short suckles where your pulse is racing before he continues. His mouth latches onto the first nipple while his other hand continues working the other one. 

The sounds coming from your mouth are sparse and faint, soft outside of the wet, vulgar ones coming from his own. But he loves them. He missed them. 

He quickly moves lower until he’s face to face with your pussy. He can see your excitement shining along the inner lips. He uses his fingers to spread you carefully and groans as your scent reaches his nostrils. 

Palms flat against your inner thighs, he keeps you spread as widely as possible for him as he dives into you. He gives broad licks over your folds and flicks your clit with the tip of his tongue before he moves lower to taste you where you’re the wettest. Once he gets a taste, he shakes his head to nuzzle closer to you until he’s drowning in your arousal. 

As his tongue teases your entrance, you drip down his chin, more of you floods into his mouth and he convinces himself that it’s because you missed him. 

He continues and your hips press up into his face, something different than he remembers what it was like with you before. Though he’s not opposed to it. 

His hands move from your inner thighs up to press down over your hip and the center of your stomach. 

In the haze of pleasure he’s drawing from being between your legs, he feels something touch his hand that is settled over your stomach. He looks up and finds your fingers over his. 

You didn’t touch him very much during sex. You fisted the sheets on your hands and covered your mouth, sometimes you bit the back of your hand. Other times you’d put your hands around his neck, but you never held his hands. 

You’re panting and look so blissful, but concern floods your eyes. 

“What’s wrong?” you ask. 

Ransom shakes his head quickly and dives back into you, doubling his efforts as you coat his tongue again. Your stomach flutters as your gasps become more frantic and Ransom brings the hand over your hip back down to stimulate your clit with his thumb. 

You gasp loudly and your fingers tighten around his hand before you fall over the edge, flooding Ransom’s mouth with more of your taste. He licks you through it, thumb lightly pressing on your clit as he gathers every last drop with his tongue. 

Kneeling over you again, he moves out from between your legs. He lays down next to you on his back before turning away from you, facing the headboard. 

You sit up, knowing he doesn’t feel better, even if he said eating you out would make him so.

“Hey,” you say, placing your hand on his shoulder.

He jerks away from you, causing a small laugh to bubble in your chest. He reminds you of a stubborn client you can’t wait to see again once clinicals start for the next semester.

“What?” he bites, sounding angry. 

“You promised you’d talk to me,” you remind him. 

When his head moves, you know he’s rolling his eyes. Then he looks over his shoulder at you. 

“ _What_?” he asks, seeing you smiling to yourself. 

“You remind me of one of my clients, is all.”

“Oh, so I’m a child to you now? _Great_.”

“Well, you’re acting like one, so…”

“What would you rather me do?

“Act like an _adult_ and talk to me,” you say, all humor falling away from your tone and face. You were using your clinician voice with him now. You only used it during your fellowship when a client was being disruptive. 

How odd that you’re using it on your sugar daddy right now. 

He turns away again and you shrug to yourself.

“Alright, then,” you resign, scooting to the edge of the bed to begin gathering your clothes on the floor. 

He sighs heavily before speaking. “Fuck…wait. Will you still listen?” he asks. 

You drop the clothes you retrieved except your sweater, pulling it over your head and turning back to face him. His body is still on his side facing the headboard, but his head is craned to look at you. 

“Of course, I will,” you smile.

You pull your sweater down as fall as it’ll go to cover your legs and sit on your knees, your bottom resting on your ankles. 

“It’s my family,” he says, adjusting his position so he lays propped up on one elbow, chest facing you and one knee bent up. He doesn’t look at you and picks at threads on his sheets again. 

“What about your family?”

“They’re just…horrible. They ruin every holiday or gathering we have.” 

Your heart tugs a little at hearing that. While you were wishing him happy holidays, he was miserable here. 

“How?”

“Stupid things. It’s different every time. New Year’s…that one was bad.” 

“Do you wanna talk about it?” you ask.

“It was just my uncle being a dick.” 

“How?” you press again.

“He just couldn’t stand that my grandfather sided with me on something. And that’s not the bad thing. It was actually nice to talk to my granddad about stuff. But, Walt–my uncle–said things. Made me remember a lot about myself.”

You thought for a moment, trying to formulate any words of comfort you could offer him, until he scoffed. 

“But I doubt you know anything about family drama.” 

“I know a little about it.” 

“Really?” he asks, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he rolls his eyes. “Don’t lie to me,” he accuses, “I hear how excited you are when your parents call. I’ve seen that picture of you and your family at your grandmother’s birthday. I barely have a relationship with my parents.” 

You listened well as he spoke, beginning to put together pieces of his assumptions of you. He’s not wrong, but he’s not completely right, either. “That photo is just _one side_ of my family, Ransom.” 

Ransom forgets that people are supposed to have two sides of their families. He doesn’t know anyone on his dad’s side other than names. He’s never met any of his father’s relatives. 

“It’s my dad’s side of the family. And it’s huge…I love them,” he sees the way you smile, like you miss them already. “That picture was taken on my grandmother’s last birthday before she passed.” 

Sadness overcomes your face and he doesn’t like it. Then you sigh in resignation. 

“My _mom’s_ side of the family, on the other hand, is all sorts of messed up. My grandmother has never had a successful marriage and she plays favorites with everyone. Her children, her grandchildren. My mom and I aren’t her favorites. It’s caused tension between my mom and her siblings and me and my cousins. There’s just…” Your face scrunches like you can’t quite figure out the correct words to articulate your feelings. “There’s just jealousy and hurt and anger. I’m jealous of my cousin because she’s the favorite, she gets the best presents. My grandmother gave her a new watch this year. I got a hand me down trinket box that my grandmother didn’t want anymore. But it’s not my cousin’s fault that my grandmother is that way. And it’s not my fault that I’m not her favorite. I’m kind to her, I respect her because I was raised to respect my older relatives. But,” you smile and a tear falls. You wipe it away quickly with the sleeve of your sweater. “I’m hurt. It hurts. I lost a grandmother who loved me and my cousins equally even though there are twenty of us.” 

_Shit_. If there were twenty _Thrombeys_ , the state of Massachusetts would have exploded years ago. He can’t imagine having twenty _cousins_ and aunts and uncles on top of that.

“And now I have a grandmother who doesn’t love me,” you wipe at more tears and smile sadly, but there’s an underlying look of understanding, too. “Don’t tell me I don’t know.” 

He feels guilty for ever accusing you of not knowing. 

“I’m sorry.” 

“It’s okay. We’ve never talked about that before.” You laugh. “We’ve just never _talked_. Unless I’m telling you to obey traffic laws.” 

Ransom chuckles and you both bask in the moment like that, finding humor in a joke you made. 

You like this. 

His smile disappears a few seconds later and he looks sad again. “It just…my uncle just reminded me that nobody really cares about me.” 

“That’s not true,” you shake your head. 

“Yes, it is.” 

There’s no tug at your heart. It breaks. 

“ _I_ care about you.” 

He chuckles, but there’s no joy in his eyes, not like there was just moments before. 

“That’s just ‘cause I’m your sugar daddy. You’ll stop once you move out.” 

Your shoulders drop. 

“That’s not true,” you say again.

“Yes, it is,” he insists.

Your brows furrow and you say nothing as you get up, swiping your clothes from the floor and barreling back to your room. You put on a clean pair of underwear and your pajama pants. Going to your larger suitcase, you unzip it and shuffle through the various items in it before finding your target. 

You rush back to his room and sit on the bed again, closer to him this time, as you hold the present out for him to take.

“What’s this?”

“It’s for you.”

His position changes to mirror yours and he takes it from you. It’s rectangular and thin, but hefty. Based on the size and weight, he predicts it’s a hardcover book. He tucks his fingers into a space created by the edge of the wrapping being taped down to the back of the item. The paper tears and he sees his prediction was correct. It was a book with a picture of his kitchen on the front cover. 

“ ** _Recipes for Ransom Drysdale_** ,” he reads the title. He’s so confused. “What?”

“It’s a book of recipes of things I’ve cooked that you seem to like, along with other stuff that’s similar,” you explain as he flips through the book. “It’s everything from grilled cheese to the fajitas. There’s even a guide on how to pick the best produce. Remember when I asked you to grab avocados and you picked ones that were already rotting?”

“You got so mad at me,” he laughs.

“So even after I graduate, when you think I’ll stop caring about you, you can cook the things I make that you like so much.” He’s genuinely speechless. “And every time you open that book, I want you to remember that I care about you. I wouldn’t have gotten it made just for you if I didn’t.” 

He looks over the quality of the book; it must’ve taken months to print at the most. You’d been planning this for a long time. 

He smiles.

“I will.” 

“Good,” you smile.

“I don’t even know what to say. Thank you.” 

He can’t remember the last time he sincerely thanked someone for something. 

“Awww,” you cooed, “Wanna hug?” 

He chuckles and you wrap your arms around his shoulders, squeezing gently around his neck. Throughout your conversation, he was stiff. He wasn’t comfortable talking to someone about his family or acknowledging how little they cared about him. Now, he relaxes in your hold, wrapping an arm around your back and holding you to him. His other remains planted on the mattress to support the weight you lean on him and his own as he remains sitting up. 

He doesn’t remember the last time someone hugged him the way you are now. 

“You can’t sell that or give it away, it’s got your name on it,” you warn him as you sit back. “That’s yours only.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he smiles. “Speaking of books that can’t be sold, I have something for you too.” 

Getting off the bed himself, he moves to the corner of the room with the box of books that was delivered the previous week. He picks up one novel and comes back, sitting down with you. 

“Sorry, it wasn’t wrapped.”

“No! Oh my gosh, it’s okay, I’ve wanted this for so long, but I’ve never had time to buy it!”

“I know,” he says. “Open the front cover.” 

You follow his instructions and find a note written in swirly letters.

**_To the women who will inspire my next novels. Many thanks.  
_ ** **_\- Harlan Thrombey._ **

“What does this mean?”

“I told Harlan about your little true crime podcast-book club thing.” 

“You _told_ Harlan Thrombey?!” you ask incredulously, “How?!”

“He’s my granddad that I shared some ideas with that my uncle got mad over. Did I not mention that?” he says smugly.

“NO! You _did not_ mention that!” you look over the book cover and the note again. “But your name is Drysdale.”

“That’s just one side of my family,” he quotes you. “My dad is Drysdale. My mom is a Thrombey. His eldest.” 

You laugh to yourself, realizing your train of thought back in July when you first saw Ransom’s name, the idea that Linda married a Drysdale, was correct. 

Thank god Ransom is her _son_. 

“What does he mean ‘inspire his next novels’?”

“I told him to cater to a female audience. Because you told me women are the biggest consumers of crime media.” 

“Oh, _wow…Wow, Ransom_!” you squeal, jumping to hug him again. “This is amazing, this is so exciting, I’m so happy.” 

He wraps his arms around you again and your hold on him tightens. He exhales happily. 

He needed this. 

He needed _you_. 


End file.
